



t'l . 


T<, • 


Jl rW * 


S '. 
- 4;./ 


• 

f 


i • \ '• ' 'M*' •-■■V' -‘‘V ^ ^ 





-. •• < 




> 


i > 


i- — 




^ .*:. V 

'f V/. 


•V*. 




V* r 

• 




# ' > 

y 


is 


,.,... - ■ ■ ■|{-??; -^ ‘■'■/ ® ■ •■' "■'' ' - ■ v':"- - '■■ ■ 

• .%d.> ' ^ ^ ' «- I . .' .,’ - • ’-I/.; 

'.. ■v..-,., . .*• , V- ■ 

. *^^KCbI> ^ ■' 




fj 


'* s 

. I 






' . t- ) ■» 








f' 




.::w 


7 ^*”^ '' . j ' T*-'- ■•■'' ■* . 




if. 








V - 


* t. V 





• y-y- 

BSHHH^^ . f ’ ' ' ^ri' ' ' ' ' ''" 


*: .f 



t-' ' 


/ 


.VV 


r '•* 


"• h - 


. '*- 


f ^ 





. V. 







• ' V'*.’;v,*v%,V . 

•- -J . -;*■>•'. *. 




I 


V/t 



r i 




■ "1^ 

'•• -r 


mM 






f . 


, :^.„.};Vi,- • ■ M§S1S£af?s,;,^ , J , 

|^&: ■ ’ • " ' ' iNt- . ‘ ■ • ’• ■ ‘' "'■ '■’ '■ f ’• 

7V'a&-J^*-‘ ^; ■H.-''-' ■!• > j*.^--. • / . ‘.^r>-;'4r^vAVrfCr^»fl3BHBBBl 




i •. 


&«•/ 




• ._, Ka ■ ■> ■ j 

ssri= . is 


9 ’* • • ' » 

.* ' . ^ ^ * 



'^■‘■ff 'y' ' ■ -■ ■ '5;fiT-:' . ..fl! 





■\V» 1 ^»'' • 


7 r< 


♦ ♦ 




/f* 


k 4 | 


. -yj 




t. 


:.■*', ■■ "''M .. 

V' '£» -'^ t '„i -' .V ; iV-'^ ' >;'■• / •- ■ ,•» ■ •■-*-■£ 

. V - iWlL ' . ' ■ .' ' . .. ■:% ■. , 




•t 





'/ 










ii : 




C?«* 


■- 

?t » 


I •• 







■i' 


•• A: 




^‘* *’11 
*,V' 



,.-r 

‘ti r- 


>. ^ ■ ..■ 

















' J 


r • 




■S I 


» 





I 



5 ' 






i 


. n 
'rl 


r 





■ f 






/ 


i 

9 


OUTSIDERS 



OUTSIDERS 


AN OUTLINE 

BY 

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


Author of Ashes of Empire f ^'The Haunts of Men f etc,^ etc. 


SECOND EDITION. 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


Copyright, 1899, 

By Frederick A. Stokes Company 





f/-/g 


CONTENTS, 


Jo 

CHAPTER 

I. 

A SHIP COMES IN, 

• 

• 

PAGE 

I 


II. 

TWO MEN, .... 

• 

• 

5 


III. 

THE LONELY CITY, 

• 


15 


IV. 

NIGHT AND DAY, 

• 


27 


V. 

THE PEDDLER OF WORDS, . 

• 


32 


VI. 

THE SELF-SATISFIED, . 

• 


S 3 


VII. 

AN INTERLUDE, . 

• 

• 

68 


VIII. 

THE STORY PROGRESSES, . 

• 

• 

78 


IX. 

A JOURNEY NOWHERE, 

• 

• 

87 


X. 

END OF THE FIRST ROUND, . 

• 


95 


XI. 

AN IRON ALTAR, . 

• 


112 


XII. 

THE MONASTERY, 

• 


125 


XIII. 

A STRIFE FOR LIFE, 

• 


141 


XIV. 

PARASITES AND PROTECTORS, 

• 

• 

148 


XV. 

OLIVER FURIOSO, 

• 

• 

170 


XVI. 

DAWN, .... 

• 

• 

180 


XVII. 

OLIVER ERRANT, . . . 

• 


187 


XVIII. 

weyward’s letter, . 

• 


198 


XIX. 

THE LAW, .... 

• 


203 


XX. 

dulcie's logic, . 

• 

• 

215 


XXI. 

THE SUMMONS, . 

• 

• 

224 


XXII. 

A TABLE FOR TWO, 

• 

• 

239 


XXIII. 

THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS, 

• 


246 


XXIV. 

MEN — AND A WOMAN, 

• 


264 


XXV. 

HIS HERITAGE, . 

• 


280 


XXVI. 

GOSSIP, .... 

• 

• 

293 


XXVII. 

A SHIP SAILS, 

• 

• 

299 






OUTSIDERS 


CHAPTER I. 

A SHIP COMES IN. 

In which Oliver Lock returns to a land where he possesses 
neither birthright^ heritage^ fior a mess of pottage. 

Somewhere in the dusk a cannon-shot shook the 
fog-hung silence ; faint bugle-notes from the har- 
bour forts stole through the mist, fitful, melodious. 

The city slept ; the watchers at her gates were 
waking. 

Again the inland bugles blew at dawn ; the coast- 
lights faded, one by one ; chimes of a ship’s bell 
swelled as the sea-breeze stirred, lingered in silvery 
echoes, mingling with the lapping of the waves on 
spray-drenched shoals. 

Over the hidden city, deep in the smother of 
fog, the smoky disk of the sun burned like the red 
lens of a light-house. 

A pallour crept out over the mist ; phantom 
waves moved, outlined under leaden wastes of fog ; 
seething currents hurried shoreward where the flat 


2 


OUTSIDERS, 


flood tide purred on the pebbled shore, looping each 
shoal with ropes of foam. 

A shower of light struck the zenith, the fog dis- 
solved, the flood tide thickened into liquid gold. 

Everywhere mist was lifting, trailing over the 
waves, leaving a jewelled wake ; the waste of steam- 
ing waters shimmered as the pale radiance deepened 
to a glory ; there was a glare, a blinding flare of 
yellow light, and the sun flashed out across the wa- 
ter to the grey horizon. 

Through the quivering mirage the black hull of 
an ocean liner towered, smoke hanging above her 
funnels, a white wave clinging to her bows. As she 
passed up the bay a passenger appeared on the hur- 
ricane deck, shading his face with both hands, eyes 
fixed on a strange human shape that loomed colos- 
sal in the dissolving fog — a woman’s figure, bronze, 
enormous, with one huge naked arm flung skyward, 
menacing the Old World with her flaming torch. 

And now, beyond, the New World opened out, 
where silvery waters washed the flanks of a silent 
city — a city of massed silhouettes and closely packed 
shapes, — a city of purple shadows and towers of 
shade that changed from mauve to amber, then 
to pink and topaz ; and, as the sun at last tore the 
mist with its million splintered rays, a million win- 
dow-panes flashed fire, and ten million little waves 
leaped up, shot through and through with shafts 
of rosy flame. 

The broad bay quivered ; steam from the waters 
still curled low among the waves ; a streak of va- 


A SHIP COMES IN. 3 

pour belted a tall iron ship, towering up on the star- 
board bow of the incoming liner. 

High in the thickets of mast and spar that fringed 
the city, the shore-fog spun its web of grey until 
the sun, pushing above the city’s steel-ribbed pali- 
sades of masonry and brick, stripped the last vestiges 
of vapour from the harbour and set the floating 
films adrift from spar and mast and netted shroud. 

Riding at anchor, steamer and ship, barque and 
brig, swung with the flood, every mast gilded, every 
rope a golden strand. At the city’s feet, along an 
endless maze of water-fronts honeycombed with 
docks, the enormous funnels of the ocean liners 
loomed above the piers and bulkheads, — White-Star, 
Red-Star, Coaster, and Cunard, — and the tall black 
stacks of the Sound boats, rising over white pilot 
house and deck, cut the solid skyline tangle where 
thickets of masts, criss-crossed with rope and wire 
and spar, crowded the wharves like clinging growths 
of naked forests. 

The gliding liner sheered northward ; the old red 
fort on her starboard bow flew a flag from the para- 
pets, a banner that stood straight out in the bay 
breeze, blue union starred with white, folds running 
in brilliant ripples, white and crimson. 

The single passenger on deck leaned on the rail 
of the moving liner, watching the great bronze 
shape flinging her bronze torch from the ocean to 
the skies. The sun turned her to a fire-brand. 
Every metal fold of her robe hung heavy and mol- 
ten, luminous with prophecy, the undaunted proph- 


4 


OUTSIDERS. 


ecy of dead sybils, — the terrible prophecy of living 
liberty. 

A sweet bell tolled across the water ; clear chimes 
echoed it from the deck of a white cruiser, anchored 
in mid-stream. 

Slowly the great liner swung against her wharf ; 
decks and gangways swarmed ; pier and bulkhead 
and string-piece were alive. 

There was shouting in the stony square outside 
the gates, the clatter of hoofs, the grinding din of 
wheels. Through the tumult and movement the 
crowd pressed, filing amid piles of luggage where 
the customs officers threaded their way, followed by 
porters staggering under leather baggage. 

Out into the uproar of the echoing square surged 
the crowd where cabs and hacks and battered belt- 
line cars bore them to the four points of the com- 
pass. And with them went Oliver Lock, a stranger 
in his own land, where he possessed neither birth- 
right, heritage, nor a mess of pottage. 

With the four winds for companions and. the cob- 
bler’s horse to guide him, he looked out into the 
iron city with clear, young eyes untroubled by a 
doubt. 

Above him something flapped like a gull in the 
sea-wind ; it was the flag. High against the blue it 
fluttered, stars sparkling in the azure field, white 
and crimson blazonry blazing through the splendid 
sunlight. 


CHAPTER IL 


TWO MEN. 

Treating of a Metropolis as seen from a horse-car^ and intro- 
ducing two people^ one of whom rises superior to preju- 
dice. 

About half past six that morning Oliver Lock 
started on a hunt that was to last as long as he did 
— the hunt that will never end while the human 
race endures, — the Hunt for Happiness! With 
that purpose in view he boarded a battered cross- 
town car, wondering where it might land him. 

Childish memories of the city were too vague to 
serve him now ; the flat skyline, the thin brick skin 
of the city under which its gigantic bones of iron 
protruded in ribs and ridges and rusty scars, at- 
tracted and distracted him. To him, as yet, it was 
merely strange, not hideous. He wondered how a 
nation could so completely overlook the vital ne- 
cessity of beauty, — he wondered why they had 
overlooked it. 

He, a modern product, had passed his youth 
among the serene landmarks of an older civilisation, 
where symmetry was born with life itself, where 
moderation was the first law of beauty, and where 
beauty, beginning as a necessity to embryonic in- 


6 


OUTSIDERS. 


telligence, grew to the dignity of a religion, — and 
left on mind and matter an impression ineffaceable. 

Spontaneous and cheerful ugliness had never be- 
fore presented itself to him as an actuality ; some 
things he found more beautiful than others. But 
ugliness enthroned, nay, glorified, ornamented, bedi- 
zened with sham and poverty, this was a new wor- 
ship to him. He looked out into the city — a 
Pueblo wilderness of cubes, rank with neglect, 
rusty, plastered brick on brick — vistas of masonry, 
painted, palisaded, worm-holed with windows, blocks 
of granular brown stone, vast steel shells papered 
with yellow brick and stucco, painted iron masses 
riddled with windows, — everywhere windows, every 
roof and tower and spire peppered full of windows! 
windows ! windows ! — everywhere the brittle skin 
of brick and paint, and the colossal skeleton of iron, 
fish-ribbed, gigantic, as though under the whole 
city lay a fossil monster half exhumed, its million 
bones of iron rusting in their brick sarcophagi. 

Into the mighty maze of dry caftons jingled the 
horse-car ; steel rails glittered into perspective, 
steel gridironed steel, above, where sheaves of 
cables and telegraph wires sagged rusting in mid- 
air: below, where the iron patterns of car-rails 
crossed and curved and crossed again. 

There was iron everywhere, endless tunnels of 
rust flaking under the weight of heavy little rail- 
road trains rushing overhead, iron bones under 
every facade, iron on roof, on cupola, on tower. 

The earth, the very air itself seemed to vibrate 


TWO MEN. 


7 


with the thrill of steel, as though the arched sky- 
still rang with the last hammer stroke that forged 
creation. 

Sounds were no novelty to Oliver Lock ; there 
are two kinds of sound, pleasant and unpleasant. 
But noise was new to him, the stupendous, intermin- 
able jarring, the amazing elimination of harmony in 
the accepted definition of the term, the monoto- 
nous repetition of endless repetitions of discord — 
insistant, dominant, hopeless noise, noise, noise ! 

He was no monger of problems, no passionless 
prober and prover of solutions. He had the nor- 
mal man's disdain of statistics, and his healthy con- 
tempt for the human sponge. But he under- 
stood when he was in the presence of something 
tremendous ; and he knew that force is never 
futile, fruitless, or causeless. 

Face to face with a people of whom he was 
one, yet whom he had never known, face to face 
with the results of their existence, he stood alone, 
a stranger among his own, without aid, without 
advice, striving to comprehend his people and their 
works — a thing the people themselves had never 
attempted to comprehend. 

The horse-car was dirty and dingy, the horses, 
staggering on down the iron rails, hung their rusty 
heads. Once the car stopped and a sweating man 
thrust a bucket of water under their noses, then 
flung the dregs into the hot street and hobbled 
away. 

There were three passengers in the car, besides 


8 


OUTSIDERS. 


Oliver ; one, an old man, whom he never again 
saw ; another, a girl dressed in mourning, the 
third, a young man in tweeds, smoking a pipe. 

Oliver looked at the girl curiously, and looked 
away when her grey eyes met his. She was pretty 
in her black crepe, and her gown was the sort of 
thing that attracts by its fit. 

Presently the car stopped and she descended. 
Oliver saw her board another car going north. 

It was six o’clock in the morning ; the heat was 
intense; the air reeked with the smell of blistering 
paint, rusting iron, and that strange odour of mil- 
lions of living creatures which hangs over great 
cities, differing enough to give every metropolis 
its individual and distinguishing essential smell. 

White-clad helmeted men watered the street 
from iron excrescences on the sidewalk, or pur- 
sued a dusty road with broom and scraper, leaving 
a stench of the stable in their wake. Steam and 
smoke curled up through iron gratings on the side- 
walks ; at moments the heavy odour of malt and 
spirits hung in the air. 

^‘Yet,” thought Oliver, ‘/if in the noise itself 
there is no harmony, it seems to strongly har- 
monise with the smells ; and the combination is ap- 
parently in keeping with the whole wilderness of 
iron and brick and windows. There is harmony 
within the discord ; city, sounds, odours, inhabitants 
bear to each other a certain balanced ratio and nat- 
ural proportion ; — as the smells are to the noise, so 
the architecture is to the inhabitants ” 


TWO MEN. 


9 


‘‘Upon my word/’ thought Oliver smiling, 
“ there’s a reason in anything that makes men fri- 
volous. I wonder where this car is going ! ” 

A moment later the car stopped ; the conductor 
walked along the side platform reversing every seat, 
and the young man with the pipe alighted, ap- 
parently disturbed by the preparations that the 
driver was making to unhook his horses and rehook 
the traces to what had been the rear of the car. 

Oliver picked up his two valises, hesitated, then 
looked inquiringly at the conductor. 

“All out,” said the conductor; “ Long Island 
Ferry.” 

As Oliver stepped to the pavement, the young 
man with the pipe caught his eye. There was a 
moment’s mutual indecision,, then they recognised 
each other by the slightest inclination of the head 
and a certain unamiable reserve peculiar to the 
Anglo-Saxon of both hemispheres. 

It was clear ^o both young men that neither 
knew where they were going ; this and the fact 
that they had seen each other on ship-board for a 
week without an effort toward human intercourse, 
made them indifferent,' if not suspicious, to any 
advances. Yet the situation was becoming un- 
pleasant ; Oliver not only was ignorant of his own 
destination but also was engaged in killing time 
before he went there. 

The young man with the pipe appeared equally 
undecided — even vaguely resentful. He smoked 
continually. 


lO 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘ I beg your pardon said Oliver, at last 

‘‘ I beg yours ’’ said the young man with the 

pipe, as though intrusion on privacy was to be met 
with firmness. 

‘‘Would you,^* continued Oliver, “be so kind 
as to inform me where I could find boarding- 
houses? 

“Lodgings?’* repeated the young man with the 
pipe, apparently relieved that Oliver had not men- 
tioned seeing him on the voyage, — “ lodgings ? — 
well, upon my word, I cannot.” 

“Thank you,” said Oliver again, so pleasantly 
yet indifferently that the other, being an English- 
man, lost any alarm he might have felt concerning 
attempts on his privacy. 

The conductor, who was ringing violently at a 
nickel steel register in the back of the car, and 
contributing his share to the discord of the metrop- 
olis, looked down as the Englishman in a spasm of 
consideration called up to him : “ I say, my good 
chap, where can a gentleman find respectable lodg- 
ings in town ? ” 

“ Hey?” inquired the conductor. 

The Englishman repeated the question ; the con- 
ductor gave the register crank a twist, slapped the 
glass cover on, locked it, rang the driver to go 
ahead, and then, apparently as an afterthought, 
called back something about Blackwell’s Island, 
which information, although interesting, if not val- 
uable, had a certain acrid tinge in its imparting, 
not far removed from derision. 


TWO MEN. 


II 


There was a boy selling morning papers at the 
ferry gate ; the Englishman beckoned him, saying 
to Oliver : ‘‘ I fancy they advertise lodgings, — 
there'rc bound to do it, you know.'' 

Oliver for the third time thanked him, bought a 
paper, and began to turn the sheets, saying that he 
was shocked at his own ignorance of the customs 
of his country, that he had not been in America 
since he was a small boy, and that he began to won- 
der whether he deserved his privilege of citizenship. 

The Englishman watched him, melting visibly all 
the time. 

I saw you aboard ship ; I fancy you saw me, " 
he said, painfully conscious that he was inviting the 
advances of a stranger. 

‘‘Yes," replied Oliver; “I recognised you." 

The Englishman said “ oh, " and looked at the 
sky. 

When Oliver found the column he wanted, another 
car had arrived, and the conductor was already re- 
versing the seats, making his quota of predestined 
clatter. 

“ Conductor," said Oliver, “ does your car pass 
Long Acre ? " 

“Take the cable — transfer — all aboard?" bawled 
the conductor, making more noise on a bell. 

Oliver stared at him ; the Englishman, laughed, 
then said quickly ; “ I'm in Long Acre myself — I 
don’t mind showing you if you wish." 

“You’re very good," said Oliver, flinging his va- 
lises aboard, as the car, without stopping for him, 


12 


OUTSIDERS. 


jingled out into the main track. It seems to me 
everybody is inclined to hurry in this city.’' 

‘‘ Fancy your being an American, now,” said the 
Englishman ; ‘‘ but I dare say you wouldn’t be flat- 
tered if you were taken for one of us, would you, 
now ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m resigned to anything,” replied Oliver, 
laughing. The laugh took the sting out of his re- 
ply. ‘‘ I’ve lived in Europe since I was twelve,” he 
added, and I’m thinking it was time ill spent if I’m 
to live the rest of my life among my own people.” 

At Broadway the car stopped ; the conductor 
handed Oliver two yellow transfer slips, saying : 

North-bound cable only — step lively, please ! ” 

“ Confound their impudence,” said Oliver, climb- 
ing aboard a cable-car ; ‘‘ I never was so hustled about 
in my life,” 

‘‘Step lively !” shouted the conductor of the 
cable-car. There was a jerk, a creak, and the car 
slid forward and glided on up the polished vista of 
steel, following hundreds of other cars similarly 
painted, followed by hundreds of others, and passed 
by hundreds more. 

“ This is Broadway,” observed the Englishman ; 
“ you knew it, I dare say.” 

Oliver knew it. Far up the ravine of masonry 
and iron, a beautiful spire, blue in the distance, rose 
from a gothic church that seemed to close the 
great thoroughfare at its northern limit. 

“ That’s Grace Church,” said Oliver, with a little 
catch in his voice. 


TWO MEN. 


13 


It was the first familiar landmark that he had 
found in the city of his boyhood — and he had been 
away only a dozen years. Suddenly he realised the 
difference between a city, in the Old-World accept- 
ance of the term, and the city before his eyes — this 
stupendous excrescence of naked iron, gaunt under 
its skin of paint, flimsily colossal, ludicrously sad ; — 
this half-begun, irrational, gaudy, dingy mon- 
strosity, — this temporary fair-ground choked with 
tinsel, ill-paved, ill-lighted, stark, treeless, swarm- 
ing, crawling with humanity. 

‘‘The air is stifling,'' said the Englishman po- 
litely ; “ it's these sky-scrapers." 

Oliver turned in all the sensitiveness of new loy- 
alty to his monster mother. 

“ I am not aware," he said, “ that New York heat 
differs from the heat of any other city." 

“ Oh, you'll be aware of it when you've lived here 
as long as I have," observed the Englishman, much 
amused. “ ‘ Give me hell for comfort,' said the 
devil, ‘ but our main office is in New York ' — I beg 
your pardon — I hope you are not offended." 

“ No," said Oliver, laughing, “you're more Amer- 
ican than I am at present ; I'll have to vote before I 
feel at liberty to enjoy a thin skin." 

“ By the way," continued Oliver, “ it's really very 
friendly of you to pilot me ; my name is Oliver 
Lock." 

“ Mine is Duncan Weyward ; — and I say, — if it's 
not offensively personal — why did you ride about in 
that cross-town car ? " 


14 


OUTSIDERS. 


Because/* said Oliver, it was too early in the 
morning to ring lodging-house door bells, and I had 
no other place to go. By the way — if it’s not im- 
pertinent, — you seemed to be riding at random 
yourself.** 

‘‘ Rather,** said Weyward ; Tve lost my door- 
key and there’s nobody to open before seven.** 


CHAPTER III. 


THE LONELY CITY. 

Relating among other things how Oliver found an arm- 
chair to sleep in and what he saw when he awaked. 

** So this is Long Acre/’ repeated Oliver, stand- 
ing still on the waste of hot asphalt and scanning 
the featureless flat rank of grey stone houses on the 
western boundary. 

“Yes,” said Weyward, gloomily; “this is Long 
Acre.” 

“ I wonder,” said Oliver, a trifle depressed, “ where 
Mrs. Wyvern’s boarding-house is.” 

“It’s over my office — it’s a flat — are you going 
there?” asked Weyward, curiously. 

“ Depends on terms,” replied Oliver ; “ what sort 
of a place is it ? ” 

They walked across the asphalt, Oliver carrying 
his two valises, Weyward refilling his pipe. 

“I don’t know,” said Weyward; “before I went 
over to London in April I heard that a Mrs. Wyvern 
had rented two stories above me. Wait — here’s my 
compound — :.the door’s open — come in, won’t you ? ” 

He entered the lower doon turned to the right, 
unlocked another door, stepped into the musty 
room, and flung open all three windows. 

“ Stuffy, isn’t it? I’ve been away since April. 


i6 


OUTSIDERS. 


Come in, Mr. Lock,” he repeated ; smells like a 
mouse-trap, doesn’t it ? You wouldn’t try a cocktail, 
now, would you — or split a Schwepps and a pony? 
You’ll find dust on the chairs, I fancy — where the 
deuce is that cork-screw ? ” 

Oliver deposited his valises and looked around. 
The room — or rather suite of three rooms running 
back to the rear — was furnished in old carved oak, 
dark enough to take those beautiful purple high- 
lights on sculptured corners, and to which dust only 
gave a bloom like the down on a plum. 

There was much silver there, much Flemish glass, 
a rug or two, one gorgeous golden tapestry, and 
many, many slippers, all women’s foot-gear, some 
antique, some modern, — slippers from Spain with 
red heels, slippers from Paris with gilt heels, slip- 
pers from Japan, Turkey, Italy. 

No,” said Weyward, looking up from the floor, 
where he was rummaging for bottles, I’m not in 
shoes — I sell bath-tubs. Beg your pardon for leav- 
ing you ; I must get some ice around the corner.” 

He went out, nodding pleasantly, and leaving the 
hall door ajar. Oliver read on the small black 
square of metal, just below the knob : 

I D. WEYWARD, | 

I Agent for Spigott, Fassett & Co., j 
I London. j 

The office, as Weyward called it, was certainly a 
most delightfully unbusiness-like office. 


THE LONELY CITY. 


17 


There were neither desks nor samples nor files nor 
framed notices ; and besides, the farthest room was 
unmistakably a bed-room, and a luxurious one, too. 

Weyward returned with a lump of ice and sat 
down on a carved chest to crack it and shake it in 
a silver freezer. 

Now you're wondering what that second room 
is — aren't you, Mr. Lock?" he said, rattling the ice 
and catching up a silver strainer, once used by 
somebody's great, great grandmother to strain her 
harmless East India tea. 

It's a music room — isn't it ? " asked Oliver. 

‘‘ Why, yes," replied Weyward a little blankly — 

or rather a chamber of silence. I’ve a mania for 
collecting musical instruments — but the devil of it 
is I can only play a drum. But I love to play it,'’ 
he added. 

A drum ?" repeated Oliver; but Weyward was 
so serious he dared not laugh. 

Yes — many don't like it. I do — I can't help it 
— the roll of atirum always did fascinate me. It's 
my only musical relaxation ; I have no ear." 

Oliver said he was surprised to hear that. 

‘‘ It's a fact — I have absolutely no ear for a tune 
— but I have a gift of rhythm and I use it on my 
drum." 

He handed Oliver a slender glass, took another 
himself, filled both with an amber liquid that 
frosted the dainty stems, and said with the painful 
solemnity that the rite entailed among Anglo-Sax- 
ons of a century ago — 


i8 


OUTSIDERS. 


A glass with you, sir — I have the honour — 

‘‘The honour is mine — with pleasure,’* replied 
Oliver. 

There was a quaint courtesy in Weyward’s man- 
ner with his glass, noticeable particularly as coming 
from one of the unclassed. 

“ Come into the studio — if you care to see some 
things,” said Weyward, affably. 

The studio walls were hung with musical instru- 
ments, rare specimens from early centuries, strange 
modern examples from Arabia, China, Africa and 
the South Seas. In sealed cabinets lay violins ; a 
grand piano, a harpsichord, a clavier, gilded harps, 
even a xylophone stood ranged against the walls. 

Weyward picked up a piffero pipe, produced a 
melancholy blast from it, and laid it down. 

“ Probably distressed you, didn’t it, Mr. Lock ? 
I have no ear — it sounded well enough to me.” 

“ But,” said Oliver, “ doesn’t anybody ever play 
any of these ? It seems a pity — that violin — it’s 
a Stradivarius — do you know it?” 

“ Oh, yes, I know it,” replied Weyward, “and to 
me it sounds as much like other fiddles as one cat 
with his interior intact sounds like another. But I 
love to look at all these things — it’s a keen pleas- 
ure. If I didn’t hate professional musicians so I’d 
have concerts — indeed I would.” 

He neglected to say that his prejudice did not 
include amateurs of the fairer sex. 

“Well,” said Oliver, “you have been very kind 
to a houseless pilgrim ; believe me, I appreciate 


THE LONELY CITY. 1 9 

your hospitality ; I wish I had met you on the 
steamer.'' 

“ So do I," replied Weyward ; ‘‘ and if you must 
go, just look in when you have time to kill. I'm 
always assaulting the poor old chap." 

He went to the door with Oliver and pointed out 
the stairway to Mrs. Wyvern's two apartments. 

‘‘ Hope you'll find comfortable quarters above ; 
look me up, Mr. Lock; I’m alone a good bit." 

Indeed I will," said Oliver, pleasantly ; and, va- 
lises in hand, he started up the crimson velvet stair- 
way. 

There was a small electric button in the door 
above ; Oliver pushed it, and, almost at the same in- 
stant, a very blonde woman, stout and rather young, 
opened the door, bringing with her a Mexican hair- 
less dog and a strong aroma of coffee. 

‘‘What is it you wish, sir? " she asked, looking 
at him through her gold eye-glasses. 

“ I should like to see Mrs. Wyvern," said Oliver; 
“ I believe she rents rooms." 

“Come in," said the woman, decisively. “Turn 
to the right, please ; I am Mrs. Wyvern. Would 
you like to look at rooms? " 

She sat down on a gilded sofa ; the Mexican hair- 
less dog hopped up beside her. The dog was blue, 
over fed, horrible. 

Oliver glanced at its bulging apoplectic eyes, its 
hideous slaty skin, naked and wrinkled. 

“ What are the prices for rooms ; I wish for 
nothing expensive," said Oliver. 


20 


OUTSIDERS. 


Mrs. Wyvern looked at him sharply ; the blue 
dog crawled into her lap. She was a woman of 
forty, stout, gowned in black silk that fitted — if the 
set of a garment stretched over the body like a sec- 
ond epidermis may be called a fit. She had china- 
blue eyes, a regular, almost baby face, in which 
there was a serenity that betokened much of good 
or much mischief. There was a flush of colour in 
each cheek, a slight tendency to fatness behind the 
ears, but her nose and chin were modelled on fine 
lines. Her hair, worn with Grecian severity, was 
curly and very, very blonde. 

“What do you call expensive?’' asked Mrs, 
Wyvern, abruptly. 

“ What I cannot afford,” said Oliver, smiling. 

Mrs. Wyvern looked up again, then busied her. 
self with settling the bells on the blue dog’s collar. 

“ This is merely an apartment, you understand,” 
she said. “ Perhaps you mistook it for a boarding- 
house.” 

“ Perhaps I did,” said Oliver, not exactly liking 
the expression in the blue dog’s eyes ; “ and I will 
not detain you, Mrs. Wyvern.” 

He rose and picked up one valise; Mrs. Wyvern 
sat still. 

“ Of course you could take your meals outside,” 
she said. 

“No,’' said Oliver, “ I don’t care to do that.” 

“All my guests do,” observed Mrs. Wyvern; 
“ please step this way.” 

He thought she was showing him out, but she 


THE LONELY CITY. 


21 


turned to the left and opened a door of a bed-room 
facing the square. 

Would you care for that room?'' she asked. 

The room was pleasant ; a small bath-room 
opened from it ; all was in the best of order. 

‘‘ What is the rent ? " asked Oliver, inclined to 
back out anyway, partly because the blue dog came 
jingling his bells into the room, partly because he 
didn’t like to be coerced into taking anything, 
partly, perhaps, because of Mrs. Wyvern's placid, 
china-blue eyes. 

“ This is summer ; I have very few guests," she 
said. ^‘You may rent it until October." And she 
mentioned a price that was reasonable. 

I serve coffee and fruit in the morning," she 
added. The blue dog jingled corroboration. 

Oliver thought for a while ; it was the neighbour- 
hood of Weyward that outweighed the blue dog, 
and the china-blue eyes of Mrs. Wyvern. 

I’ll take it," said Oliver, dropping both valises 
with a sigh of relief at one problem the less to 
solve. 

When he looked up again Mrs. Wyvern and the 
blue dog had disappeared. Oliver threw himself in- 
to an arm-chair and stared out across the hot square. 
He was tired ; the fatigue of the solid land after a 
week of ocean motion made him drowsy. 

There were cable-cars gliding through the square 
at intervals ; a few hansoms rolled past over the soft, 
hot asphalt. Under a big lamp-post crowned with 
sprawling bronze arms, a policeman in drab helmet, 


22 


OUTSIDERS. 


blue serge blouse, and white cotton gloves, stood 
juggling with his short club. Occasionally he spat 
upon the sidewalk. 

At the northern extremity of the Long Acre 
stood a yellow building from which a red flag hung 
bearing the legend, ‘‘Auction To-day.’' Above it 
a sign proclaimed that the Salvation Army would 
hold hallelujah pops until further notice. 

The eastern section of the square appeared to be 
given over to small shops, save where the long cross 
streets pierced it at right angles and set out their 
frontier posts of brown stone in protest against the 
encroachments of commerce. The southern and 
eastern angle of the Long Acre terminated in a 
great pile of discoloured lime-stone, yellow brick and 
iron, shapeless, depressing. 

The movement of the cable-cars wearied Oliver. 
He looked at the lamp-post ; its sprawling clusters 
resembled the legs of an overturned crab on a 
clothes-post. 

Five minutes later he was sleeping in his arm- 
chair ; and when, after a long, long time, he awakened, 
the red sunset, reflected from the windows opposite, 
slanted in bars across his ceiling. 

As he stood up, yawning and rubbing his eyes, 
something stirred behind him ; and he turned, and 
saw a young girl, in black, with grey eyes and pale 
lips, smiling faintly her excuse for the intrusion : 

“ I came to bring towels — I am sorry I disturbed 
you — my mother has no maid in summer — I am 
Dulcie Wyvern.” 


THE LONELY CITY. 


23 


There was a moment's silence ; the sunlight 
slowly filled the room, lighting it to a saffron glow. 
Gradually the illumination waned ; on wall and ceil- 
ing the red rays paled and faded out, leaving corners 
full of shadows that spread an arabesque of patterns 
across the floor. 

She had already gone, leaving behind her a faint 
freshness in the dusk. 

He walked to the door. Somewhere in the house 
he heard the jingle of the blue dog. The shadows 
on his ceiling grew greyer ; the gong of a cable- 
car outside sounded, repeated by another car, in 
minor intervals, almost musical. 

As he started to make his toilet, he looked about 
him at the darkened room. 

The curtains of twilight hung heavy through the 
heat ; in the smothered stillness he heard his watch 
ticking. 

The flat shadows, the silence stifled him ; a dull 
weight settled with the descending night ; and 
when he shook it from his brow it sank 
into his heart ; silence, sadness, shadow, muffled, 
impenetrable. 

Suddenly he turned, a clear voice in his ears — • 
but it was only an echo of his fancy. Shadows are 
ghosts of the sun ; sound has its ghosts, echoes that 
haunt lonely ears, whispering to lonely hearts. 

He went noiselessly down the stairs and out into 
the pale gaslight, where a waste of polished asphalt 
reflected the yellow lamp rays or glimmered white 
under the electric lights. 


24 


OUTSIDERS. 


His path lay somewhere through the half-lighted 
clefts and bricked gorges of the city ; he followed 
the roaring cafion of Broadway because of the roar 
and movement. Somewhere down there, deep in 
the dry-baked ravine of masonry and iron, he would 
follow the four winds until they blew him through 
the gaslight and shadow into some caravansary 
where he could eat, and rest, and go his way. 

Clocks with great illuminated dials stared at him 
from the gutter-curb ; lighted shop windows, crossed 
and recrossed by silhouettes, lined the sidewalk. 

Above, in the thick air, a smouldering radiance 
kindled in the haze, through which, far up between 
the black cliffs of iron, a little misshapen moon, 
battered and tarnished, hung like a muddy silver 
drop in a spider’s web. 

Signs flared out, outlined in incandescent glob- 
ules ; globes of arc-lights,white and trembling, spread 
moving shapes upon the sidewalk around which 
magnified shadows of winged creatures danced, and 
disappeared, quivering into view again only to dis- 
solve among the rings of graded light and shade 
that spread like ripples in a pool across the pave- 
ment. 

Dark blocks of great commercial houses suc- 
ceeded blocks of theatres and hotels bathed in the 
light of signs and coloured clusters; there were 
letters of light arched over theatres, legends of 
light labelling music-halls and hotels, dark structures 
towered with lights, tall shapes of shade hung with 
single lamps, misty skeletons of shadow spirting 


THE LONELY CITY. 


25 


light through every rib, vast masses of lighted win- 
dows, tier on tier, framed with spectral outlines of 
masonry. 

Out from the darkness, shot and smeared with 
light, the round yellow eyes of the cable cars 
stared, passed, and went out, leaving a tiny red or 
blue lantern glimmering good-bye behind. And 
out of the swarming, crawling depths of the kindling 
ravine a ceaseless ringing rumour rose to the skies. 

Night and day the city vibrates from tower to 
sewer, from spire to subway, from its skies to the 
deep, black, earthy depths, down under the rock of 
its foundations. It is the steady shock of machin- 
ery intoning an iron monotone; it is the under- 
tone of living force chaining the forces of land and 
sea ; it is the groaning of an iron people in iron 
depths, moving the whole world upon their shoul- 
ders, a living pedestal of earth and bone and blood 
for the iron goddess with the flaming torch. 

Out of the blue gloom in the east a church* bell 
tolled above the hushed avenue ; the sullen roar 
of a loaded train across iron trestles drowned it; 
there came a rush of steam, the piercing creak of 
rusty brakes, a silence, filled with the shuffle of 
worn shoes on pavements worn to their heated 
beds. 

An iron tunnel, a stark steel shell, crusted with 
rust, blotched with greasy paint that flaked from 
rusty bolted uprights and filthy girders, choked 
an avenue stretching southward into the night. 
Through the tunnel whizzed electric cars, over the 


26 


OUTSIDERS. 


tunners roof tore loaded trains with little heavy 
locomotives wreathed in steam and car after car 
gliding after, flashing ranks and ranks of lighted 
windows, until the last car passed with a hiss from 
the air brakes and the red signal lamp grew to a 
spark, glimmered, then vanished as another train 
rolled in, steaming, shaking the whole tunnel with 
its grinding wheels. 

And, deep in the city’s iron cleft, creeping 
through the dull glow, lost in crowded ways, lost 
in deserted squares, passed Oliver Lock, haunting 
the human pack, through the immense loneliness of 
the city, where on the right hand a thousand pass 
nor turn aside and ten thousand on the left are 
passing ; figures that move from darkness to light, 
and from the light again to darkness, pale faces 
with eyes of shadow, shadowy faces with pale eyes, 
the ghosts of voices, words half caught, left ring- 
ing in the ears, meaningless, sadder than sighs. 

On he went, depressed by the increasing loneli- 
ness of strange streets ! — where the sun and the 
moon and the light of the stars are darkened and 
the doors in the dwellings are closed ; where strange 
eyes look, seeing nothing, where strange laughter 
sounds suspicious ; where the throngs hasten on 
their ways and the stranger knows not why nor 
where. 


CHAPTER IV. 


NIGHT AND DAY. 

A chapter ending with a ray of light. 

The heat slowly increased ; cloudless days slipped 
into brief, breathless nights, leaving on his tired 
brain aching impressions of miles of streets glaring 
in hopeless sunlight, of roofs and chimneys clean cut 
against intense blue skies, of summer stars drowned 
in the depths of hot midnights that smothered 
earth and air in a shadowless purple sea. 

The white dawn brought no breath ; the steel- 
grey shadows of masonry and brick shrank as the 
sun crept up, then quivered and lengthened, crawl- 
ing across hot pavements, across dry gutters, steal- 
ing over stony squares, till the red cinders kindling 
in the west flung crimson sparks on every window 
and the dense cross-streets, from river to river, 
smouldered in fiery shadow. 

Then the grey haze, rising from dock and pier, 
dimmed the last stain on the horizon, and all light 
faded, until, through twilight falling, the white 
electric lamps snapped alight and a million ghostly 
gas jets outlined the black city in squares and lines 
and angles, reflecting the great signs and arcs of 
the star-lit constellations. 


28 


OUTSIDERS. 


With dusk the tense drawn cord of life relaxed, 
and the iron city slumbered, fitfully, moaning in its 
sleep : with dawn the cord grew tense again and the 
deep hum started in the city’s heart, increasing, grow- 
ing, roaring through its arteries — ringing skyward 
to the zenith, vibrating from the Palisades to the 
sea. 

And Oliver went about to sell his wares. 

All day long the tired throngs trudged the 
streets, going, coming, through the glare ; up and 
down, up and down moved cars and cabs and trucks 
and drays. The heavy little engines on the Ele- 
vated rushed north and south over miles and miles 
of scorching streets, and their parched steam- 
brakes hissed with the hissing surf on the southern 
sea-wall, and their ashes dropped in the northern 
stream running to meet flood-tide from the Hudson 
to the Sound. 

And Oliver travelled north and south. 

But all the floods that washed the reeking flanks 
of the city could not cool it ; the North River 
foamed along the Battery, pushing and piling wave 
on wave into the Hudson, the East River swirled 
through the docks, swinging a heavy tide athwart 
the Sound, the Spuyten Duyvil surged into the Har- 
lem, curling under its swinging steel bridges — but 
the iron roots of the city blistered among the dry 
rock, and its iron-capped spires blistered under the 
sun. 

In the streets the strife for life, renewed at every 
dawn, grew into a struggle for breath. In the long 


NIGHT AND DAY. 


29 


gridiron of the metropolitan desert, the endless 
avenues from north to south were still running 
with the sands of life, but the thousand streets that 
cross-barred them from east to west were silent, 
horridly silent, save at sundown, when the human 
swarm crawled out, craving darkness and the 
stars and silence. 

And, at evening, Oliver Lock, among the mil- 
lions, crept to the roofs, looking out at the yellow 
lights in the harbour with sick eyes, — he who had 
entered the city alone, armed with youth, he who 
had gone into its clefts and ravines to ask for the 
right to live. His voice had been lost in the iron 
din ; he passed from the eyes and the memory of 
those within the walls ; none remembered even to 
forget him, he was so lost, so meaningless, so dead 
where helplessness is death, where power alone is. 
life. 

The lighted disk of a clock-dial hung in the 
black southwest ; he watched its changeless face 
until a bell in the north sounded for midnight. 

Then he looked out over the vast encircling 
city, where millions fought for the sleep that the 
heated sky denied, where in the darkness around 
him men were dying as he looked, where there 
were births, too, even as he stood there, somewhere 
deep under the blackness and shadow. 

If he felt bitterness it was not because the 
right to live had been refused him by those who trade 
to live themselves — by those who give when they 
want and who refuse to give when their own de- 


30 


OUTSIDERS. 


sire is assuaged. It was because what he had to 
give was worth nothing to them, that his wares 
were useless to men. 

In that ocean of troubled silence — that black 
ocean below him, under which black streets crossed 
streets of shadow and spaces of shapeless shade 
concealed ten thousand breathing men, there was 
not one place for him to sit and work among the 
million workers, to work knowing that what he did 
would end in trade and keep the life within him 
alive for other work. 

Into the universe of merchants with their mer- 
chandise he had been born to fashion merchandise 
as well as they ; and he had come to the city with 
wares that no man understood or wanted. 

So, if he could not make anything, and if he 
could not idly stand and watch the strife for life, 
what was left ? 

He turned and struck the brick wall behind him 
with his clenched hand and shook his bleeding, 
naked fist at the ocean of shadow. 

Then he felt his way to the ladder and descended 
deep into the silent house, ashamed, penitent, 
wondering what the end would be. 

“ There must be room for me — there must be,’’ 
he said to himself ; “ it is my own land — there must 
be room.” 

He entered his dark chamber and felt for the 
bed. On it lay a thick pile of papers — his book. 

‘‘I don’t know — I don’t know where to turn,” 
he said, staring about in the darkness. 


NIGHT AND DAY. 3 1 

Somebody in the outer hallway opened a door, 
flooding his room with light. 

‘‘Are you ill — I thought I heard you call,*' 
whispered Dulcie Wyvern. 

“ No, I am not ill," he said, wondering that 
in all the world anybody should ask or care. 

“ Then — good-night," said Dulcie Wyvern. 

“ Good-night — and thank you." 

There came a faint response — the soft noise of 
a door closing — and darkness. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 

Describing how Oliver rushed in where authors fear to 
tread. 

A Sunday of sunlit silence had driven him to 
bed at sun-down, supperless, stifling with the ne- 
cessity of something to do. He rose next morn- 
ing and sat, thinking, by the window, until the 
jingle of the bells on the blue dog warned him 
that Mrs. Wyvern was on her way with his coffee. 

He opened the door for her ; she placed the tray 
on his table and bade him good-morning in a man- 
ner which always seemed pleasant until he encoun- 
tered her eyes behind the gold eye-glasses. 

There were two letters and a long envelope on 
his tray. He had expected no mail ; he had sent a 
manuscript to Klaw, but an answer within a fort- 
night from the great publisher was more than he 
had dared look for. 

There is another note ; I am requested to de- 
liver it,” said Mrs. Wyvern, holding out a violet- 
tinted envelope in her plump, ringed fingers. 

He thanked her and laid it with the other mail. 

‘‘Is the room satisfactory, Mr. Lock?” asked 
Mrs. Wyvern, taking the blue dog into her arms. 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 33 

Entirely/’ he replied ; “ I regret that I am 
obliged to leave it next week.” 

She hesitated, looking at him with near-sighted 
eyes. 

I see you are interested in the publishing busi- 
ness,” she said. There was in her voice the faintest 
trace of interest ; she was looking at the imprint on 
the long envelope — The Klaw Publishing Com- 
pany.” 

‘‘Yes,” he said, nervously, “ I am interested in 
publishers — more or less. I expect to make a living 
with their aid, and help them to make one by mine.” 

“ Have you met Mr. Dawson Klaw, Mr. Lock?” 
she inquired, with the nearest-sighted smile he had 
yet noticed. She always made him uncomfortable, 
yet she was agreeable to look at, even attractive in 
her plump, fresh-skinned type, almost pretty in 
spite of the vague blue eyes — nay, the eyes them- 
selves were perilously close to a dewy sort of beauty 
— had there not been, deep in the pupils, an unac- 
countable fixedness. 

“I have never met Mr. Dawson Klaw,” said 
Oliver. 

There was a slight change in Mrs. Wyvern’s face 
— an imperceptible relaxation of her eyebrows. A 
moment later she went out with the blue dog. 

Oliver, pouring his coffee, heard the door close, 
then his abstracted eyes returned to the long enve- 
lope on the table. The imprint, with the well-known 
three-headed parrot, fascinated him — he had seen 
it in books ever since he. could remember; he rec- 


34 


OUTSIDERS. 


ollected somebody saying that the three brothers, 
Dawson, Rogueby and Magnelius Klaw, had been 
photographed for the parrots’ heads — an ill-natured 
remark as well as a stupid one. 

No, he would not allow that long envelope to 
spoil his appetite ; he would not touch it until after 
breakfast. Not that he doubted what it contained ; 
unexpected happiness is quite as bad for the appe- 
tite as sudden sorrow. 

His hand was not steady as he lifted the cream 
jug. How good they had been to read his manu- 
script and take it — for they had not sent it back — 
the long envelope was much too small to contain all 
he had written for the Klaws to publish — the three 
brothers — Dawson, Rogueby and Magnelius Klaw ! 

He was too excited to eat ; he scarcely touched 
the buttered rolls and the melon ; the coffee burnt 
his mouth. 

But he would not open the parcel ; he pretended 
that he needed self discipline. He was very happy. 

And, after a long while, during which he had 
eaten nothing, he found out the real reason why he 
had not opened the long envelope. He was afraid. 

When he thoroughly understood that, he picked 
up the envelope. It was heavy ; there were several 
stamps on it. But it could not be his rejected man- 
uscript, ‘‘The Winged Boy.” 

He opened it ; there was a type-written set of 
verses inside and a slip of paper. The slip was 
partly printed, partly filled in with ink : 

“ The Klaw Publishing Company regret that they 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 35 

do not find Miss Violet Highlands' [written in ink] 
manuscript available for publication and beg to re- 
turn the same with thanks. 

Dawson Klaw [written] 

‘‘ per A. B. C. [written] 

He stared blankly at the poem signed “ Violet 
Highlands*' : then examined the envelope. It was 
directed to him. 

The miserable certainty that there had been an 
error, that a stranger's manuscript had been re- 
turned to him by mistake, was no consolation. 
Clearly his own manuscript, The Winged Boy," 
was now in the possession of Miss Violet Highlands, 
whoever she might be — rejected ! 

The error embittered the disappointment ; there 
was a sick sensation in his breast as he returned the 
poem and slip to the long envelope. ‘After a mo- 
ment he resolutely picked up the letters. 

The first envelope contained the advertisement 
of a Broadway tailor, couched in sartorial language, 
respectfully suggesting plunges into credit and coats 
of many colours. 

He flung it into the fire-place. 

The second letter was a line from Weyward re- 
gretting that Oliver had not looked him up “down 
stairs," and requesting the pleasure of his company 
at ten that evening. 

Still smarting under disappointment, deeply hurt 
because of the carelessness of the Klaws, he tossed 
Weyward's note aside and opened the violet-tinted 
envelope. 


36 


OUTSIDERS. 


He read the note twice in grim displeasure : 

‘‘ Monday. 

‘‘ Dear Mr. Lock : — 

“ Your lovely story came to me by mistake 
and I guess that horrid old Klaw sent you my 
poem. I shall die if you read it. Won’t you bring 
it to me at five o’clock? 

Sincerely yours, 

'' Violet Highlands. 

{Apartment 9.) ” 

Presently he leaned back and touched the elec- 
tric button behind him, then laid the note on the 
table, frowning. 

It was Dulcie Wyvern who came in with a shy 
good-morning and that pale, pretty smile he had 
come to know. 

I beg your pardon for disturbing you,” he said, 

but is there a Miss Violet Highlands staying here ? ” 

The grey eyes opened a trifle wider ; the 
smile changed. 

“Yes; Miss Highlands, Miss Tring and Miss 
McNair have apartment nine.” 

“ Is Miss Highlands at home ? ” 

“ No,” said the girl, uncertainly. 

She waited a moment, turning the handle of the 
door, serious face lowered, then started to go. 

“ When may I see Miss Highlands?” asked Oli- 
ver, abruptly. 

She looked up, her pale face faintly tinged with 
colour. Oliver repeated the question. 


THE PEDDLDR OF WORDS. 37 

Did she not ask you to come at five ? '' inquired 
Dulcie. 

He nodded, wondering how she knew that. 

The blue dog came tinkling along the hallway. 
Dulcie eyed it scornfully and said : Go away, 
Dawson.*' 

‘‘ I thought you were fond of it," said Oliver, 
picking up his hat. 

‘‘No, I am not," replied Dulcie; “I cannot see 
why Mama keeps such a dog as Dawson." 

“ It's probably valuable,’* said Oliver, amused. 
“ What a name, — Dawson ! ** 

“ I never before saw one without hair," ob- 
served Dulcie, turning up her nose ; “ we had a dog 
in Montreal," she added, “ such a dog ! — higher 

than that ! ** She held out one hand very high, 

but, being truthful by instinct, lowered it after a 
slight hesitation, as a concession to conscience and 
a tribute to possibility. 

“ In Montreal," repeated Oliver, lingering in the 
dim hallway. 

“Yes, indeed; in Notre Dame. Not that Daw- 
son kind of dog. We wouldn’t have Dawson in 
Notre Dame." 

“ Your school ? ** asked Oliver. 

“Yes. I have not been home before in years. I 
came to New York last Christmas." 

“ Are you going back to Notre Dame?" 

“ No. Once I wished to take the veil — but I was 
ignorant — oh, you can’t imagine ! The world is too 
exciting — I had no idea what good times people had 
in the world. Still " 


38 


OUTSIDERS. 


She twisted her hands thoughtfully and looked 
at Oliver. 

Still ? ’’ repeated Oliver. 

‘‘ Well — I loved the Sisters — all except one — 
and I did try to love her — and they are so quiet. 
There in Notre Dame — there is peace — But I have 
good times here — Fm going to have one to-night 
— hush ! — if Mama knew 

‘‘Dulcie!” came a clear, passionless voice from 
the hall to the left. The blue dog tinkled nearer. 

‘‘ Yes, Mama,'' she answered; ‘Mo you want 
Dawson ? " 

He caught her swift glance ; her eyes gave him 
a shy leave-taking as he turned toward the stair- 
way. 

Weyward, who stood by the street door examin- 
ing a bunch of keys, looked up as Oliver de- 
scended. 

“ Hello," he called out cheerfully, “ are you com- 
ing to hear me play the drum to-night ? " 

“Of course," replied Oliver, smiling. “Ten 
o'clock, I believe ? " 

“ Ten sharp ; you will come, won't you now ? " 

Oliver said yes. 

Weyward mentioned that a month or more had 
passed without Oliver's appearance. 

“ By the way," he said, “ would you consider it 
impertinent if I should ask you something per- 
sonal ? " 

“ I can tell you when you ask it," replied Oliver 
laughing. 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 39 

‘‘ Why, then — you go in for — er — literature, don’t 
you ? ” 

‘‘ I certainly do,” said Oliver ; ‘‘who told you ? ” 

If Weyward heard the question he did not an- 
swer; and Oliver said: “ 1^" never have published 
anything — I’m beginning.” 

“With a knock-out,” added Weyward, incau- 
tiously. 

Oliver reddened and Weyward, whose intentions 
had been of the best, cursed himself for the blunder. 

He said frankly : “ I knew that Klaw had returned 
a manuscript of yours and I was devilish sorry. 
Don’t consider me a prying beast — I only knew 
you seemed to be without backers and — and I 
thought — perhaps — if you would let me be of use to 
you ” 

He was quite upset by Oliver’s annoyance; he 
certainly had made a mess of it. 

“ See here,” he said, “ I’ve seen more of this city 
than you have and it’s hell for the stranger ! ” 

Oliver had cooled his tender skin by this time, 
although Wey ward’s knowledge of his disappoint- 
ment still stung. 

“ I don’t care for help,” he said ; “ if the city is 
hell it suits me ; I’m here to raise hell on my own 
account.” 

Weyward looked so hurt that Oliver assured 
him he was not offended. 

“You’ll see I’m right,” said Weyward; “that 
manuscript should have been taken — and, by Jove, 
it’s fine ! ” 


40 


OUTSIDERSo 


‘‘You didn’t read it?” asked Oliver in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Read it ! Didn’t I ? I sat up over it — and 
when I finished and looked for the author’s name — 
and found it was you ” 

“ Where the devil did you get my manuscript ? ” 
demanded Oliver irritably. 

Weyward’s excitement subsided; he looked at 
Oliver and jingled his keys. 

“Let the tabby jump that time, didn’t I?” he 
said with the ghost of a grin. 

“Yes,” said Oliver, “you got it from a Miss 
Violet Highlands. Who is she, Weyward?” 

“You won’t ask me to-morrow,” replied Wey- 
ward with another grin. “ Come, don’t be ungen- 
erous, for it wasn’t her fault. Her mail comes to 
my place — I mean her literary mail, and I open it. 
She wrote you, didn’t she ? ” 

“Yes,” said Oliver, puzzled. 

“Well, you have her rejected verses. I fancy 
you’ll forgive her when you see her. You’re going 
to see her at five, I believe.” 

Oliver, still puzzled, and seriously inclined to 
resent the participation of people in his private 
affairs, said that he himself had not felt at liberty 
to read Miss Highlands’ verses. He added some- 
thing about a decent respect for privacy which 
nettled Weyward. 

“ Privacy ! My dear fellow, have you come to 
New York for privacy?” 

He laughed immediately, however, and contin- 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 


41 


lied : I know a good thing, and I know that good 
things stand no better chance than bad things un- 
less backed and pushed. I haven’t a pull but it’s 
odds to a penny I can put you in the way of sev- 
eral. Let me do it ; you are going to delay suc- 
cess unless somebody beats a drum for you. You 
won’t do it yourself — you are not that kind ; you 
write because you know how ; publishers publish 
because they don’t know how. And when they 
hear the bass-drum they follow it like the rats 
after the pied-piper.” 

Weyward’s handsome face was quite red by 
this time ; he flourished his keys, jingling defi- 
ance to all who might gainsay him. 

He said: ^'You’ve never troubled yourself to 
call on me since our first meeting — which was a 
bit ungracious, now, wasn’t it ? Odds to a penny 
you’d never have come to see me if I hadn’t writ- 
ten you — now, would you ? ” 

“ I’ve been very busy,” said Oliver, things have 
not turned out well — and — really, Weyward, I 
haven’t had the heart for it and that’s a fact.” 

The kindliness of this young Englishman touched 
him, the more keenly, perhaps, because of the 
morning’s false hopes and chagrin. 

He had not gone to see Weyward, partly because 
he had no heart for anything after a month of dis- 
appointment, partly because his money was nearly 
gone and he would not accept hospitality that he 
could not return. 

Probably Weyward suspected that something 


42 


OUTSIDERS. 


had gone wrong in Oliver’s bank, for he was wearing 
his winter clothes, in the hottest city on earth, — 
well-cut, faultless clothes, to be sure — but enough 
to start the perspiration on Weyward’s forehead 
at the idea. 

‘‘ Why the devil,” said Weyward abruptly, ‘‘can’t 
you be more friendly ? ” 

Oliver laughed and said they should be. 

“ Then come in and we’ll have a cocktail— and 
you won’t mind if I tell you all about your own 
business, will you now ? ” 

Oliver went in, glad of a seat in a friendly man’s 
house, tired of a quest that was proving more hope- 
less day by day. 

There was no bloom of dust on the carved oak 
now ; silver and glass sparkled ; the sun fell on gold- 
en tapestry lighting the long room with mellow re- 
flections. 

The comfort of the still, cool rooms rested him ; 
he watched Weyward busy with the silver shaker 
and the ancestral strainer. The weight on his tired 
lids relaxed ; the straight, anxious crease smoothed 
out between his brows. 

Weyward’s collection of slippers on their ebony 
shelves, carefully dusted, amused him. He fancied, 
there had been a few modern additions. 

It was early morning yet ; still he felt that heavy 
fatigue that ’the heated dawn brings in the iron 
city. Care had already touched his eyes with 
shadow ; his body seemed tired — as though he had 
passed through sickness. 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 


43 


But he was not yet hopelessly sick at heart ; he 
was convinced that somebody would publish his 
books. It was not dismay, not even panic at the 
few dollars left, only a hurt surprise at rebuffs, a 
wonder that he could find no opening, no foot- 
hold anywhere. But it was absurd to think that 
there was no room for him or his books. 

If he felt tired and depressed at evening it was 
perhaps the> heat, the strangeness, the physical 
distress of walking — for he could not afford carfare 
now — perhaps his winter clothes were reasons for 
headaches, sleepless nights, and that sudden ex- 
haustion that the mornings brought. He had been 
obliged to economise on food, too — perhaps his ner- 
vous fatigue came from that — his fits of fierce re- 
sentment — as when he had struck the hot brick wall 
with naked knuckles. 

He had managed, however, to keep himself fairly 
well groomed ; his grey winter clothes appeared 
suitable for sumrner, too, unless one examined them 
closely ; his hat was spotless, his linen immaculate. 
That was why he found it necessary to cut down 
on restaurant bills. 

He lay back in the broad, carved chair, quietly 
enjoying the comfort that brief relaxation from the 
strain of the strife for life brought to him ; con- 
tented to rest for a few moments under a friendly 
man’s roof. 

A glass with you, my dear fellow — I have the 
honour — ” 

Wey ward’s quaint, formal voice roused him from 


44 


OUTSIDERS. 


an apathy that bordered closely on slumber. They 
touched glasses. 

‘‘ As you were saying/* began Weyward, '' you 
have met the enemy and you are theirs.’* 

Oliver had been saying nothing of the kind. How- 
ever, he assented to the accuracy of Weyward’s 
statement by silence. And Weyward proceeded : 

“ Your romance of ‘ The Winged Boy ’ is good — 
good enough to anger the public, unless you had a 
name. In that event publishers would scramble 
for it. This is unjust, but it’s so. Justice is long- 
armed ; publishers are long-eared, and a wisp of hay 
in their mouths produces the desired bray of plea- 
sure where a whack with a stick wielded by the long 
arms of Justice would invite kicking and stampedes. 
Do you follow me ? ’* 

Indeed I do,** replied Oliver, smiling. 

‘‘ Good ; I make bath-tubs sometimes, sometimes 
metaphors; Byron took baths in bigger tubs and 
made better epigrams, such as, 

Now Bar abbas was a Publisher — ’* 

‘‘ Don’t you think that epigram rather cheap ? I 
like yours better,” said Oliver. 

‘‘Can’t accept bouquets at my friend Byron’s ex- 
pense,” replied Weyward ; “ odds to a penny he’d 
have said the same about me. What ! Oh, I say, 
don’t refuse another glass now. Stay by me ; I can 
talk better with a glass in my hand.” 

They touched glasses formally. 

“As you were saying,” continued Weyward, 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 45 

airily, ‘‘ the pull’s the thing ! And,” he added, 
gravely, ‘‘you are perfectly correct.” 

Oliver frowned, then smiled. 

Weyward brought his well-shaped hand down on 
his chair with a slap. 

“ That’s the idea ! A pull ! A pull ! My dear 
fellow, your logic overcomes me ! ” 

“ I didn’t say anything to deserve such ad- 
miration,” said Oliver, laughing ; “ and I’m not 
looking for pulls, as you call them.” 

He rose, adding that it was late and he had busi- 
ness down town. 

“ Oh, I say,” blurted out Weyward, “ let me ask 
you questions, won’t you ? ” 

Oliver, much amused, said certainly, and the 
young Englishman began a rapid-fire battery of 
questions and cross-examination which sometimes 
annoyed Oliver and sometimes made him laugh 
outright. 

Yet there was no mistaking Wey ward’s single- 
minded sincerity ; it was plain that he had taken a 
genuine liking to Oliver and intended to make him- 
self useful in spite of the other’s reserve and dis- 
approval. 

His questions were parried or unanswered, but 
what he drew from Oliver confirmed his suspicions 
that Oliver was down on his luck, and, being gently 
bred, could neither beat the bass-drum in his own 
honour nor set anybody else doing it for him. 

“I’ll beat it myself then,” thought Weyward; 
“ I fancy it won’t hurt the bath-tub crop.” 


46 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘ Then,’* said Oliver, moving toward the door, 
‘'I am to come this evening. You say there may 
be a few people? ” 

‘‘ There may be a few,” replied Weyward, care- 
lessly. 

He went with Oliver to the street door. 

Remember,” he said, ‘‘ ten o’clock sharp. I 
suppose you are going to see some of your ratty 
publishers this afternoon ? ” 

'‘Yes, if they’ll see me,” said Oliver, with the 
faintest trace of bitterness. 

"Got ’em all down?” inquired Weyward. 

Oliver handed him his note book, asking him to 
suggest any others he might think of. 

Weyward glanced at the column : 


The Kestrel Press Co., . . 

Klaw Brothers & Co., . . . 

Wallowby Sons, 

Chudley, Skipp, and Fleeter, 

Weems Co., 

Salmi Cheedle, 

Fox, Kite, and Jakel, . . . 


Fulton Street, 
Gramercy Park, 

St. John’s Place, 
Madison Square, S., 
Broadway, 

Battery Square, 
Herald Square. 


" You have never been to see Klaw or Salmi 
Cheedle?” asked Weyward, returning the note 
book. 

"No. I sent them my novel, ‘The Self-Satis- 
fied.’ They returned it.” 

" And you are going to see them personally ? ” 
"Yes.” 

"Well,” said Weyward, with sudden warmth. 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 47 

‘‘ good luck, old fellow. Fll count on you at ten. 
Don't let those chipmunks spoil your appetite ! " 

The morning was frightfully hot, but he decided 
to walk the two miles on Broadway and save his 
five cents fora shoe polish. So he tucked the man- 
uscript of '‘The Self-Satisfied" under his arm and 
walked on through the stifling shadowless glare. 

Wey ward's comment on the great publishers 
Klaw and Cheedle as "chipmunks" disturbed 
him. It left that unpleasant sensation that arises 
in our hearts when clever people busy themselves 
with the destruction of our boyhood's heroes. 
Not that Weyward had been either impertinent or 
officious, nor, on the other hand, could publishers 
be associated .with Oliver's boyhood ideals. But 
yet, for years the publisher had stood in his estima- 
tion as an embodiment of all that was to be re- 
spected — a synonym for probity, erudition, gener- 
osity, and taste, a landmark of the nation's culture, 
a haven for talent and promise, a philanthropic, self- 
sustaining beacon to guide storm-tossed genius to 
recognition and affiuence. 

To those who made books, was not the publisher 
a guide and friend, a benevolent philosopher, a men- 
tor and father ? 

Publishers in the nature of things could not, like 
pirates and bandits, supply the ideals of boyhood ; 
even their unquestioned probity and respectability 
were perhaps a bit heavy. But to call them " chip- 
munks " was neither good taste nor wit. Oliver was 
disappointed in Weyward. 


48 


OUTSIDERS. 


He was dusty and tired when he turned from 
White Street into Battery Square. The great house 
of Cheedle threw a vast grey shadow over the as- 
phalt ; he rested a moment in the shadow of Cheedle, 
to mop his hot forehead, then entered the hushed 
portals and gave his card to a clerk. 

'' Have you an appointment with Mr. Cheedle,*’ 
asked the clerk, chewing something rapidly and 
looking hard at Oliver. 

'' No ; say that I wish to see him on business, and 
that I will not keep him.” 

Mr. Cheedle is out,” replied the clerk, without 
moving. 

This palpable lie bothered Oliver. He hesitated, 
glancing around at the partitions where clerks wrote 
in ledgers by the light of green-shaded gas-jets, al- 
though outside in the square the white sunlight 
flooded asphalt and grass-plot. 

In the corner by a window a girl sat before a type- 
writer. She looked idle and not unamiable, so 
Oliver, ignoring the clerk, walked over to her. 

‘‘ Do you happen to know whether Mr. Cheedle 
is in the building ? ” he asked politely. 

She glanced at the clerk, who stood by the door 
watching them. The clerk scowled, but the girl, 
considerably impressed by Oliver’s pleasant def- 
erence to herself, and, moreover, not unwilling to 
disoblige the clerk, pointed with her pencil toward 
a desk in the dark rear of the floor : 

‘‘ Do you see that stout, smooth-faced genl’man ? 
That’s Mr. Cheedle, sir, talking to our Mr. Bim.” 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 


49 


‘‘Thank you very much/' said Oliver. 

“ Not at all," replied the girl, promptly. 

The clerk intercepted him, saying: “You can’t 
go back there." 

“ Oh," said Oliver, “ why not ? " and walked 
through the dark building straight to Mr. Cheedle. 

A stout man with pendulous lips pursed into a 
perpetual pout, looked around at Oliver saying : 

“ Oh — ah — this is Mr. — Mr. — " 

“ Oliver Lock," said Oliver. 

“ Exactly — Mr. Lock," said Cheedle, looking at 
him as though to recall some famous personage in- 
advertently forgotten ; “ pray be seated, Mr. Lock 
— er — you know our Mr. Bim ? " 

Oliver bowed to Mr. Bim, who in turn bowed, 
glancing at Cheedle for the proper cue. 

Salmi Cheedle had published “ Locke, on the Hu- 
man Understanding," but of course this could 
scarcely be the same Locke. However, it was a 
good name ; courtesy was cheap, and his memory 
bad. So he asked Oliver to be seated, and pouted 
affably. 

“You returned my manuscript, ‘The Winged 
Boy,’ " said Oliver simply ; “ I came to ask you to be 
good enough to point out why my work is unavail- 
able, and also to ask you to read my novel, ‘ The 
Self-Satisfied. ’ ’’ 

Mr. Cheedle’s face changed ; he glanced at the 
distant door, where the impudent clerk sat, and his 
glance boded no good for that clerk. Then he 
looked at Mr. Bim. 


50 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘It would be a great favour to me if you would 
give me a hint about my ‘ Winged Boy/ '' said 
Oliver. “ It is my first book ; I have no advisers. 
I should be very grateful.'' 

“ Really Mr. — er — er — Mr. Lock," said Salmi 
Cheedle, “ I cannot now recall the — the manuscript 
in question." 

“‘The Winged Boy,'" said Oliver; “you may 
remember that you wrote me yourself." 

Mr. Cheedle not only never wrote himself but he 
never read manuscripts. He pretended to do both, 
however, so he coughed his fat cough and said 
something about “our Mr. Bim," and “our valued 
authors " ; and Mr. Bim took his cue. 

“ Naturally," he said, in a weak soprano voice, 
“ naturally, Mr. Lock, we can scarcely recall one 
manuscript among the thousands Mr. Cheedle reads 
every year." 

“ But you said — " began Oliver. 

“ Exactly, Mr. Lock," wheezed Cheedle, “ our Mr. 
Bim recalls the book — er — amateurish, I may say, 
without offense — was it not, Mr. Bim ? " 

“Very," said Mr. Bim. 

“ And — er — it was the — the young man's first 
book, I understand ? " 

“ It was," said Bim, concealing a yawn. 

Salmi Cheedle smiled, patted Oliver on the arm, 
coughed fatly, and smiled some more. 

“ I recall the book — er — er — the Singed Boy — er 
— exactly — good title — Singed Boy dreads the fire, 
eh? — exactly. Now, Mr. Lock, write us something 


THE PEDDLER OF WORDS. 


51 


more mature — exactly — more mature! You've 
time — lots of time — give us something — er — shall I 
say more — more — exactly I — er " 

He darted a venomous glance at our Mr. Bim, " 
who woke up from his cat-nap and blinked re- 
proachfully at Oliver. 

‘‘ Mr. Cheedle's advice is good advice for young 
men," he said ; it injures young men to rush into 
print with a first book." 

But," said Oliver, some book must be the first 
book." 

Salmi Cheedle looked him over in blank amaze- 
ment, then began to wind a big gold watch, still 
looking him over. 

Will you read my second book I have the 
manuscript here " began Oliver. 

‘‘ Really — really, Mr. Lock, we have so many 
books in hand," protested Bim; “our list for the 
fall season is full and we could not undertake to 
read your manuscript for a year at least." 

Salmi Cheedle, having wound his watch, put it 
into his pocket and coughed a particularly fat 
cough. 

“ I cannot understand why manuscripts should 
not have a chance — at least, of being read," said 
Oliver slowly. 

Salmi Cheedle had wandered off into outer dark- 
ness somewhere, whence, at intervals, his fat cough 
resounded softly. “ Our Mr. Bim " turned his back 
and yawned openly. 

As Oliver passed the door with “ The Self-Sat- 


52 


OUTSIDERS. 


isfied under his arm, he stopped to get a glass of 
ice water from the cooler near the door. 

As he moistened his parched lips, the impudent 
clerk reviled him sotto voce, but, when he turned 
away, the typewriting girl looked up with a smile. 

Oliver took off his hat to her and went his way^ 

Through the intolerable heated canons he passed 
afoot, stopping at St. John's Place, where all of the 
Wallowby Sons firmly refused to see him or re- 
ceive his manuscript, stopping to receive a rebuff 
from Mr. Weems of the Weems Co. on Broadway, 
told to call next January at Fox, Kite, and Jakel’s, 
kept in a hot ante-room for an hour at the Kestrel 
Press Co., and finally received and deluged with ex- 
cuses at Chudley, Skipp, and Fleeter's. 

As he left, with Mr. Seely Fleeter's voice in his 
ear and the same ear ringing with the promises of 
Mr. Fleeter to ‘‘ keep an eye oh " him, and ‘‘avail " 
himself “ of the first opportunity," he almost stag- 
gered out into Madison Square, faint with the heat, 
dazed, empty of stomach, and as close as he ever 
had been to despair. 

He had one place left to go to ; he shrank from 
it — he was so tired. But he went on, slowly, and 
at last he came to the great publishing edifice on 
Gramercy Park and sent up his card. 

Whom the gods would destroy they first make 
authors. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 

A chapter full of prejudice. 

There were no conventional potentates, no truly 
great rulers of democratic proclivities more easily 
approached than the three brothers Klaw, — Dawson, 
Rogueby and Magnelius. 

Divinity is all very well to serve for the hedging 
of Kings; the Klaw brothers discarded it, — nay, 
they ruthlessly levelled all barriers between them- 
selves and the humblest citizen and stood in a row 
on the ruined back-fence of divinity, naked, defence- 
less, urbane. 

There was no penny-a-liner, no wretched quill- 
scratcher, no worm in the carcass of literature, too 
obscure to be denied an audience with the Klaw 
brothers — and worms might even take their pick or 
bunch the whole firm for one interview. 

There was first of all Mr. Dawson Klaw, slow 
stepping, soft of voice, with prominent pale eyes, — 
blood-shot, from over study, perhaps, — and heavy 
bloodless cheeks feathered with down like the fluff 
on a new-born chicken. 

Then there was Mr. Rogueby Klaw, a miniature 


54 


OUTSIDERS. 


of Mr. Dawson, with miniature voice and move- 
ments and a roguish smile. 

Then there was Mr. Magnelius Klaw, bovine and 
bulky, an enlargement of Mr. Dawson, with the ad- 
dition of a few modern improvements, — like a house 
which is mostly basement. 

All three brothers had large, soft, fat hands and 
the famous beaked noses which doubtless gave rise 
to the slander concerning the three-headed parrot. 

Oliver had waited in an ante-room for about two 
minutes when a large-headed little boy came back 
and said politely : Which Mr, Klaw did you wish 
to see, sir ? 

‘‘ I don’t know,” said Oliver, wearily ; “ any Mr. 
Klaw who will see me.” 

Please step this way, sir,” said the large-headed 
boy. 

Oliver followed. He had expected to take a voy- 
age in an elevator, cross several stretches of territory, 
ascend one or two iron stair-cases, creep through a 
few vistas of clerks, and be abandoned at the wrong 
side of a glass door. To his surprise and confusion 
he took about ten steps and, before he could hesi- 
tate, he was inside the glass door and facing three 
gentlemen, Mr. Dawson, Mr. Rogueby, and Mr. 
Magnelius Klaw. 

‘‘ How do you do, Mr. Lock,” said Mr. Dawson 
Klaw with the kindly smile of one who has de- 
stroyed the divine hedge and dug up the roots. 

Mr. Rogueby bowed a miniature bow ; and Mr. 
Magnelius bowed a big bow and said aha ! ” 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 


55 


Oliver, tired, confused, weakened by the heat and 
his long fast, took the designated chair — inside the 
ruined hedge — and told his tale. When he had fin- 
ished, he drew the manuscript from under his arm 
and, too weary to even hold it out, laid it on a 
desk beside Mr. Rogueby Klaw. 

‘‘ Yes,” said Mr. Dawson Klaw, slowly and softly, 
'‘we read 'The Winged Boy,' and we decided it 
was not available.’^ 

" Why ? ” asked Oliver. " I beg you to believe 
that I do not attempt to question your judgment 
or to appear impertinent. I would be glad to know 
where the fault lies. It is my first book ; is it too 
palpably the work of an amateur?” 

"Is it too palpably the work of an amateur?” 
asked Mr. Dawson, turning to Mr. Rogueby. Mr. 
Rogueby gave a roguish smile and referred the 
question to Mr. Magnelius, who merely said " aha ! ” 
in tones of hollow thunder. 

Mr. Dawson, who always answered his own ques- 
tions after passing them through Mr. Rogueby into 
the improved basement of Mr. Magnelius, only to 
catch them up again like a returned cud, ruminated, 
did a little digesting on his own account, and then, 
holding up two fat white fingers, said : 

" No, it is not too palpably amateurish.” 

; The delivery of a benediction was not more suave 
than his phrasing ; his lifted fingers, which ecclesi- 
astical gesture was so often ridiculed by the profane, 
seemed weighted with the dignity of all things tem- 
poral and spiritual. The attitude, the gesture alone 


56 


OUTSIDERS. 


would have lent solemnity to anything he might 
have said, had it been fee-fo-fum, or cock-a-doodle- 
do ! 

“ Then,’' said Oliver, very much impressed, 
“ where is the fault ? ” 

“ Where is the fault ? ” asked Mr. Dawson of Mr. 
Rogueby again, and again Mr. Rogueby swallowed 
the cud with a roguish smile and passed it into the 
second stomach of Mr. Magnelius, who thundered 
‘‘ aha ! ” and expelled it for further mastication by 
Mr. Dawson. 

‘‘ The fault is,” said Mr. Dawson, blessing the 
company, the House of Klaw, the city, the entire 
hemisphere, and incidentally himself, with his two 
uplifted fingers, — “ the fault is that it is not avail- 
able.” 

The audience was at an end — Oliver plainly un- 
derstood that. But, contrary to his expectations, 
Mr. Magnelius, who had been speaking heavily of 
“ our Mr. Gouge,” suddenly produced that individ- 
ual apparently from his own coat-tail pocket, while 
Mr. Dawson silently blessed the trick of legerde- 
main and Mr. Rogueby smiled in miniature. 

Mr. Gouge piloted Oliver to the door, then lisp- 
ing, “ thith way, if you pleath, Mr. Lock,” drove him 
into a little square room full of letter files and other 
iron implements that, whatever they were, seemed 
equally suitable to the publishing business or the 
Spanish Inquisition. 

“You may leave your manuthcript with me, Mr. 
Lock, it ith thafe with me — quite thafe. I will read 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 57 

it at oneth, Mr. Lock/' said Mr. Gouge, blinking at 
Oliver with watery eyes. 

Did you read my * Winged Boy ' ? " asked 
Oliver. 

Yeth, thir, I did, thir. It ith exthquithite — tho 
exthquithite that we find it unavailable, Mr. Lock. 
Now, if you had a name ! — " 

Mr. Gouge's weak eyes filled and dripped at the 
mere idea of the value of The Winged Boy" if 
Oliver only had a name. 

But — surely you did not refuse it because I am 
unknown ? " asked Oliver. 

‘‘ Yeth, thir," replied Mr. Gouge, drying his eyes. 

And I should not advithe you to be too thanguine 
in rethpect to thith novel." 

‘‘ Because I am unknown ?" repeated Oliver, aghast. 

Yeth, thir, becauth you are unknown." 

“ But, damn it ! — how can a man become known 
if you all refuse him a chance because he is un- 
known ! " 

“ There are other publishers in town," observed 
Mr. Gouge, as Oliver silently picked up his manu- 
script and turned to go ; — there are Harperth, 
StoKeths, Scribnerth, Appletonths, Holths, Mac- 
Millanths, Putnamths, — all of them thometimeths 
take bookths from unknown authors — and risk fail- 
ure." 

Thank you," said Oliver. 

“ Then there are cheap publisherths " said 

Mr. Gouge, cordially. 

Oliver opened the door. 


58 


OUTSIDERS. 


“ Good-day, thir, good-day,’’ said Mr. Gouge ; 
‘‘ remember — if you care to leave your manuscripths 
we shall always be glad to read any you may 
have. Thith way, thir, — good-ddLy^ thir,’' 

“ Good-day,” said Oliver. 

The publishers mentioned by Mr. Gouge he had 
not been to see. But what hope had he that they 
might be unlike those he had seen ? So with a 
young heart full of bitterness, and the dread of des- 
pair tugging at his heartstrings, he passed by 
the doors of those who manufactured books, and 
turned his tired feet homeward. 

The clang of the iron city echoed from cafion to 
cafton, the cloudless sky glittered with a coppery 
light, the steel-grey shadows crawled eastward over 
the burning pavements. 

There was a sour-stale taste in his mouth ; those 
who fast much often have it. 

But he felt too tired to eat when he reached the 
house on Long Acre Square. 

His room was cool and dark ; he flung the manu- 
script on the bed, tossed his hat after it, and fell in- 
to an arm-chair, face pale and wet with perspiration, 
eyes vacant, hands hanging helpless over the carved 
arm of the chair. 

After a long while he said aloud : Well — well — 
what the devil am I to do ? — what am I to do ” 

Tired as he was, he felt the necessity of move- 
ment, of occupying himself with fighting off some- 
thing ; those who are sick at heart must do that : 
it is only unhealthy minds that yield to inertia — ■ 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 59 

that seek it, knowing that it is the lethargy of 
despair. 

He had, in his pocket, a copy of the Areopagitica ; 
it was in his hand — and the curtain raised to admit 
light, before he was perfectly aware of what he was 
doing. Then, standing on his tired, dusty feet, he 
read aloud, for his heart’s rest, the most splendid 
passage in the English language : 

‘‘ .... Truth indeed came once into the 

world with her Divine Master, and was a perfect 
shape most glorious .... But when He as- 
cended and His Apostles after Him were laid asleep, 
then straight arose a wicked race of deceivers, who, as 
the story goes of the Egyptian Typhon with his 
conspirators, how they dealt with the good Osiris, 
took Virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a 
thousand pieces, and scattered them to the four 
winds. From that time ever since, the sad friends 
of Truth, such as durst appear, imitating the careful 
search that Isis made for the mangled body of Osi- 
ris, went up and down gathering up limb by limb 
still as they could find them. 

We have not yet found them all, .... nor 
ever shall do, till her Master’s second coming; He 
shall bring together every joint and member, and 
shall mould them into an immortal feature of loveli- 
ness and perfection. ...” 

For half an hour he wandered about the room, 
holding his open book tightly clasped to his breast, 
but not reading. 

He bathed later, changing his linen indolently. 


6d 


OUTSIDERS. 


loafing about while he fastened studs and collar. 
His hunger troubled his serenity more or less, still 
he found time to enjoy a leisurely toilet, and to 
sprawl on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, 
wondering how soon his turn would come. 

The splendid lines rang in his ears. 

‘‘ Truth indeed came once into the world with her 
Divine Master ” 

Sobered, he arose, looking about him with listless 
eyes. But, before he had finished dressing, he was 
smiling at his own condition among men — unknown, 
without means, without friends — unless Weyward — 

That set him thinking of the violet-tinted note 
and the thought made him feel slightly silly. 

‘‘ I feel,” he thought, so frivolous, that I think I 
am fit to go and see Violet — and that's what I’ll do, 
too ” 

It was a few minutes after five by his watch ; five 
was the hour appointed for him to return the misdi- 
rected poem and receive his own manuscript. 

He put her poem into his pocket and went out, 
locking his door, for the blue dog had a horrid ha- 
bit of prying it open at times, and twice Oliver had 
found the naked little monster rolling on his bed 
uttering yelps of satisfaction. 

Apartment 9 was on the floor above ; he had no 
diflficulty in finding it, for the hall was well lighted 
and the number plain, and, besides, somebody in- 
side the half-opened door was giggling. 

“ Probably Violet,” he thought, preparing to ring. 
But that proved unnecessary, for a young girl in a 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 


6l 


light, fluffy gown opened the door and, trying to 
look serious, invited him by name to enter. 

More or less unprepared for Violet in that form 
he went in and was presented to two more young 
girls in pale, fluffy gowns, who also attempted to 
look serious and failed in conjunction. 

‘'This,*' said Violet Highlands, “is Miss McNair, 
and this is Miss Tring — and no doubt you think 
Tm silly because they giggle. I never do.*’ 

“ How do you do," said Sylvia Tring, who was 
sitting behind a tea table ; “ Miss Highlands is 
young and we let her say things." 

Here she giggled. 

“Won't you have some tea?" asked Mazie Mc- 
Nair promptly. “ Sylvia, don't act like a goose." 

“ Did you read my poem ? " asked Violet, sitting 
down beside Oliver ; “ I shall die if you did — 

and I know you did — I shall die ! " 

She lay back in her arm chair, placing both hands 
over her eyes as though composing herself for the 
prophesied dissolution. Her hands were pretty ; 
there were rings on them that sparkled a great deal. 

“ I did not read the poem," said Oliver, wishing 
he had. 

“ Oh," said Violet taking down her hands hastily. 
She looked at him so reproachfully that he began 
to smile. 

“ I read your story — and it was lovely," she 
went on, shovelling coals of fire where they might 
do the most good ; “and Miss McNair read it and 
so did Miss Tring. I simply devoured every line. 


62 


OUTSIDERS. 


It must be just lovely to write like that — and to 
think that horrid old Dawson Klaw sent it back ! 

Oliver was confused. He had lived in many 
cities and in many quarters ; he had met all kinds 
of people and it took him but a short time to place 
each person, — that is, in the Old World. From the 
demi-mondaine to the mondaine is a far cry in that 
same Old World and there are many links between, 
easily identified by those who know the social chain 
of the unclassed, from staple to ring. 

But he had as yet no label for anybody in the 
New World ; it was worth while to study it, too, and 
utterly useless to apply the worn, familiar standards 
of an older civilisation. 

If you don’t mind,” he said, accepting a cup of 
tea from Sylvia Tring, ‘‘I should be very glad to 
read the poem.” 

Violet, greatly pleased, shook her head violently 
until a jewelled pin from her hair fell on the carpet. 

Oliver picked it up. 

Are you American ? ” asked Violet. 

He was perfectly unprepared for personal ques- 
tions. 

I think you embarrass Mr. Lock,” observed 
Sylvia, tinkering with a chafing dish. 

“ Indeed, no,” said Oliver, discounting the chal- 
lenge in Violet’s eyes — I fancy asking questions 
may prove amusing. Would you mind? ” 

‘‘ I don’t mind questions,” said Mazie. 

Well, then,” said Oliver, ‘‘ do you write poetry, 
too ? ” 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 


63 

‘‘She wishes she could/* observed Sylvia, still 
busy with the chafing dish. 

“ No, I don*t,** said Mazie ; “ it makes me think of 
the notes the Johnnies send.** 

Violet stood up and sniffed at the steaming chaf- 
ing dish. 

“ I don’t know why I write poetry,” she said ; “ I 
never thought of sending any to be printed until 
one day I met Dawson Klaw and I just thought Td 
see if he remembered my name, so I sent that poem.” 

“ Did you see that lovely Mexican hairless dog 
down stairs?” asked Mazie. “Its name is Daw- 
son.” 

“ I saw a blue cur,” said Oliver, laughing ; “ why 
is it named Dawson?” 

Sylvia giggled ; Violet walked over to the win- 
dow looking uncomfortable and Mazie went on 
with an innocent air : “ Why, didn’t you know that 
Mr. Dawson Klaw was a friend of the family? 
But don’t say / said so.” 

“Of Mrs. Wyvern’s?” asked Oliver. 

“ Why, yes ; so of course they named the dog 
Dawson.” 

“ Don’t be horrid,” said Violet from the window; 
“ Dulcie Wyvern is a sweet girl.” 

Sylvia began to serve some lobster k la Newburg, 
telling Oliver he could draw corks as soon as he 
felt physically able. 

The mocking badinage, the veiled mischief in the 
young faces before him, the situation itself was 
bizarre to him. Painfully suspicious that perhaps 


64 


OUTSIDERS. 


they were laughing at him, too — as indeed they were 
at times — unused to the slightly acrid tinge that 
salted the gaiety, he strove to find places among the 
unclassed for these three errant links ; and he found 
none, although he gathered that Sylvia Tring and 
Mazie McNair sang comic opera at apparently odd 
moments in a theatre called the Athenian,” and 
that Violet Highlands hoped to do some very tragic 
things behind the footlights as soon as she gradu- 
ated from Signor Ditties Operatic Conservatory 
and School of Acting.” 

He wanted to say to Violet, but where the 
deuce is your mother?” 

It came out presently ; Sylvia whispered to him 
that Violet's father was ‘'a Professor and did 
phenomena ” and other philanthropic deeds to select 
circles in Boston, and her mother believed in 
spooks and muscular minds.” 

Sitting there in the brightly coloured little room, 
where Japanese umbrellas did much for the dec- 
oration and did it inexpensively, and a string of 
Japanese dolls, trussed up on the wall like papooses, 
distributed enamelled smiles over the furniture, he 
watched this miniature human comedy with bored 
eyes. 

Boudoir, bed-room, and parlour, in one, the room, 
though he did not know it, was typical. The 
folding-bed, over decorated, was a flat failure as a 
disguised side-board ; the oak dresser accused it, the 
silver-backed brushes and mirror exposed it. 

With his lobster and bread and butter on his 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 


65 


knees it took some self-restraint to pretend he was 
not hungry. Sylvia Tring, however, made herself at 
home over a bottle of olives, and Mazie and Violet 
were so unaffectedly helping themselves to lobster 
that he took courage and ate as he was bidden. It 
was well he did or the beer might have gone to his 
head ; as it was, being under-nourished and nervously 
unstrung, what he drank brought a bit of healthy 
colour to his cheeks and a tonic to nerves unsteady 
from over-tension. 

When Oliver was himself everybody liked him ; 
he had that pleasant reserve so attractive to those 
who lacked it. Then, too, being unaffected, others 
were flattered by his direct, good-humoured speech, 
sometimes mistaking it for confidence until set right 
by his reserve. That made him respected, too. 

Violet, being younger than the others, made eyes 
at him harder and less skillfully than did Sylvia. 
Mazie had her own method, which was as miniature 
as herself, and she babbled prettily of the stage and 
Johnnies and somebody who was ‘‘just too lovely 
in pink but somebody lowered the foots and she 
didn’t get a hand,” until Oliver understood, as was 
intended, that Mazie McNair was the hope and sal- 
vation of a cringing manager and the prop of a 
theatre that must have perished from Broadway had 
she not become its living caryatid. 

They bade him smoke ; he had no tobacco ; he 
had given that up with other luxuries, which was 
foolish in him, for he craved it more than food. 
However, Violet had some very small gold-tipped 


66 


OUTSIDERS. 


cigarettes and made it a favour for him to try one 
with her. 

Sylvia and I/’ observed Mazie, gave that up ; 
it's horrid for your voice." 

Violet was much too young to care. 

The long sunbeams slanted through the lace cur- 
tains, outlining in bluish shadow the window frame. 
Sounds from the street came up indistinctly ; a fly 
made a soothing music on the pane. 

I wish — I wish, — " began Violet dreamily, that 
I were " 

Presently she continued, with long pauses be- 
tween each word : 

‘‘ That — I — were — cast — away — on — an iceberg." 

Sweet little frappe you would make," said Syl- 
via, lazily spearing an olive. 

Somebody would be sure to come and find me — 
wouldn’t they, Mr. Lock?" continued Violet. 

It was on his tongue to say, ‘‘yes, your mother 
with a hair-brush," but he never hurt people’s feel- 
ings. 

“ Why do you smoke ? " he said. “ Nobody does 
it now, you know, on the other side." 

The white lie and the pleasant voice did what he 
wished ; Violet was young enough to care very 
much what people did — on any “ side." And a 
moment later he was amused to see her secretly 
hide the cigarette under a saucer. 

He made his adieu with enough formality to 
make all three young girls realise that he thought 
them worth the formality. This was not tact on 


THE SELF-SATISFIED. 


67 


his part, it was pure kindliness. Besides, they were 
certainly a pretty trio. They made him think of a 
basket of kittens. 

When he went back to his room on the floor be- 
low, he remembered that he had not mentioned 
Weyward to Violet. Neither had she spoken of 
him. 

The door was locked ; he had some difficulty 
finding his key in the dim hallway. As he stepped 
toward the window at the end of the hall, holding 
up his bunch of keys, a man entered the passage 
softly, a bulky gentleman who walked like a cat 
among glasses. 

Oliver stepped back to give him room. The 
man did not recognise him, perhaps because he 
stood in front of the hall window. But he re- 
cognised the man. It was Mr. Dawson Klaw. 

As he opened his own door he heard Mrs. Wy- 
vern's emotionless voice in the hallway and the 
bells on Dawson, the blue dog. They jingled vi- 
olently as though Dawson were either scratching 
or wagging his rudimentary tail. 

About half past ten that evening Oliver rang at 
Wey ward’s door. They were very gay within. 

He rang again. Weyward opened. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AN INTERLUDE. 

In which Oliver spends a strange evening. 

There was an essence of mignonette in the air; 
the room was a half-tone — the people impressions. 

Lighted candles set in silver sockets, a flare of 
yellow light from the music-room, laughter floating 
above the mellow monotone that swelled to a har- 
mony, then ebbed, with pauses full of whispers like 
a brook — the swish of petticoats on polished floors, 
the scent of summer flowers, the vague fresh odour 
of fresh gowns and gloves and delicate lace skirts 
and dainty shoes : 

A minuet played capriciously, a flurry of lace, 
white sparkles where some tiny jewel broke out in 
rays above a whiter neck, dimmed light on rounded 
arms and shoulders, dimmer shadows under eyes 
that opened in the glow as velvet flowers unclose 
at dawn : 

Then there were interludes of quiet, and silken 
silences; the perfumed air from fans discreetly 
swaying, and the air the violins exhaled, quaintly 
capricious — and a young girl playing : 

Had the grave sweet echo of a younger century 
come to linger among them, caught from colonial 


AN INTERLUDE. 


69 

days? Had a simpler generation returned to 
simpler pleasures, valuing gentleness and speech 
and the gilt formula of honour, and the thin silver 
silences, and the lip-service of thinnest gold ? No ; 
it was only one phase of the unclassed. 

“This is no masquerade,'' said Wey ward the 
real souls of all who are here, come out to play like 
little children in the sun — here under these candles 
and tapestry. Then — they return to that iron 
thing outside the door." 

“ The city," said Oliver. 

“ The city." 

A trio of girls’ voices in the music-room began a 
serenade with harp and lute accompaniment — the 
soft tumult, the laughter, died to a mellow murmur, 
a whisper, above which fresh voices carried the air 
like a summer gale of laughter to the whirlwind fin- 
ish, followed by dropping echoes from the harp. 

Then, as the trio swelled again, joined in by more 
and more, an exquisite soprano voice soared out 
into the theme, sustaining its integrity above the 
ringing strings, above the rising chorus, then faded 
like an echo from a peak floating cloud-ward. 

Weyward's voice came back to him through a 
gust of laughter that swept the tumult into another 
key : 

“ Many, if they knew how, would find their 
pleasure in a simpler happiness, with its insincere 
veneer that pleases and does not deceive — with its 
simpler virtues and vices — and its formal informal- 
ity. I ask whom I please ; only those come whom 


70 


OUTSIDERS. 


I approve. I find my guests everywhere; some 
are descendants, some can only hope to have de- 
scendants ; generations of delicate culture give me 
a guest here and there, the hod-carrier of yesterday 
sends me — that, for instance.’’ 

A brown-eyed, sweet-faced girl passed them, with 
the faintest smile at Weyward. 

“It’sTessie Delmour, a hat model for Armand. 
I saw her behind the counter in a milliner’s store,” 
said Weyward. “ Now she plays that Stradivarius, 
and,” he added with a shrug, “ I sell bath-tubs, 
and live my life out among the unclassed.” 

Oliver spoke of the music. 

“Yes,” replied Weyward, “we all understand 
sounds here — not as they understand sounds in 
that iron thing out there.” 

Oliver’s eyes sought the shrouded window. 

“We understand the value of words, too, I think. 
That young girl yonder can talk to you about the 
violin or about her hats and feathers. Or she can 
make the violin speak for her when she is tired of 
talking. If you feel like it you may compromise 
the programme and talk of love.” 

“ Provided I neither understand hats nor music ? ” 
suggested Oliver, dryly. “ Who is that playing 
the harp?” 

“ A young un-married married woman of the 
younger set,” said Weyward, carelessly. 

“You don’t mean a woman in New York so- 
ciety ? ” 

“Why not? Many of them are at home among 
the unclassed outsiders.’' 


AN INTERLUDE. 


71 


Is her husband here ? 

Her late husband is, her present spouse is ab- 
sent.'' 

‘‘ And he knows she is here ? " 

I'm sure I can't say, but I suspect not," laughed 
Weyward. ‘‘I leave details to my guests; they 
either ‘ come or stay away,' like the guests in the 
street song." 

*^Then — this is democracy?" 

No, it is not. Come if you will, stay if it pleases 
you. Here is nothing that attracts them — out 
there — not even democracy." 

He looked at the shaded windows ; the iron thing 
outside lay silent. 

^‘No, not democracy. There is no license here. 
There is the freedom of the individual — the liberty 
to ask, the liberty to grant, the liberty to refuse. 
There is the liberty of taste, of inclination, of com- 
ing in and of going out — and the fundamental lib- 
erty of silence. No, it is not democracy." 

It is strange," said Oliver, that with all this 
liberty the place should not ring with din and dis- 
cord — all being free, there in the music-room." 

They are at liberty to have what they wish — 
even discord." 

“ I call that license," said Oliver. 

‘‘ Do you ? Why don’t you go around and talk 
to anybody you choose to. Nobody's ever pre- 
sented here." 

Oliver rose and looked into the music-room. 
Two young fellows were fencing there without 


72 


OUTSIDERS. 


buttons to their foils. The music of steel crossing 
steel rang pleasantly out in the murmur of cadenced 
whispering. Somebody struck chords from a spin- 
net ; it was the sword theme, changing into an 
absurd variation — ‘‘ Voici le Sabre ! ” amTd soft cries 
of shame ! — and volleys of musical laughter. 

‘‘They’ll be at it with Indian sabres later; 
go about, my dear fellow ; you’ll see none of 
these people again without masks — unless you meet 
them here next month, under my tapestry and 
candles.” 

Presently Oliver said : “ Everybody smokes cig- 

arettes when they see fit ; there are decanters, 
too.” 

“ People here never take too much of anything — 
only enough of what they like. Then they 
leave.” 

“There is a young girl there, holding one of 
your lutes. I think she has had enough cham- 
pagne,” observed Oliver. 

“ Perhaps. If she took more she would go home. 
Nobody offends here, and nobody takes offence. 
The women I ask need have but three characteris- 
tics, youth, pleasant eyes and mouths, and a desire 
to come here. I exact nothing in particular from 
my guests, they nothing of me. I do take toll — - 
sometimes.” 

“ I see you do,” laughed Oliver, glancing at the 
rows of slippers in their thin, glass-locked cases. 

“ A single slipper here and there — a record that 
amuses me,” said Weyward. 


AN INTERLUDE. 


73 


From each ?” 

‘'Oh, no — not from every one. You see, I have 
only a few slippers — not twenty in all.*' 

After a short silence Oliver said : “ Isn’t this 
whole thing tinctured with decadence ? ” 

Weyward said: “You will find no taint; you 
will hear no epigrams born in perversion, no ‘ mots ’ 
nor • bon mots ’ nor straining after brilliancy nor 
bandying of inverted phrases labelled epigram.” 

He stood up lazily. 

“ Badinage — if you will ; yes, and a smart thrust 
in tierce. Do you fence ? I can butcher your 
buttons for you. Oh — then go and talk to people.” 

“ Men ?” 

Weyward laughed: “As you like — unless you 
mean to begin a collection of slippers.” 

“I thought,” said Oliver, “ that you had some 
people you wanted me to meet. ” 

“ I have. They’re here — find them. I never in- 
troduce.” 

Oliver saw him pick up a foil and stroll away, 
carrying it with the grace of a gallant, in the days 
when the iron thing outside the windows there was 
young. 

^ Passing along toward the music-room he met the 
eyes of people standing or sitting here and there. 
One, a well-built, broad-shouldered young fellow, 
nodded in a friendly way, and, when Oliver stopped, 
hesitating, said : “ There’s some good whiskey here ; 
will you split a bottle of soda ? ” 

The split was successful ; Oliver found his 


74 


OUTSIDERS. 


voice. This Is my first evening here ; it is an ab- 
solutely new experience.’' 

The square-shouldered young man lighted a cig- 
arette. 

I wanted to ask you," he said, “ what you 
thought about the possibility of using a scene like 
this on canvas." 

I haven’t thought about it," said Oliver smiling. 

“ Haven’t you ? Well, I have. By, the way my 
name is Trivol and I’m an artist — not much of a one 
yet." 

‘‘ I’m Oliver Lock, a writer." 

‘‘ Not much of a one yet?" inquired Trivol. 

No," laughed Oliver, ‘‘ not much of a one yet." 

Suppose," said Trivol, ‘‘ you come down to the 
Monastery and look at my pictures." 

The Monastery ? ’’ repeated Oliver. 

“ It’s a place for studios and apartments. Its 
name is the ‘ Monastery ’ — probably as reasonable 
a title as that of the little nuns of Poissy. Anyway, 
the number is 260 Washington Square. Will you 
come? My pictures are not very bad. And I 
don’t paint things for you in the air with my 
thumb." 

Oliver laughed and accepted. 

‘‘ I’ve a theory — not much of a one — but it is go- 
ing to enable me to paint gas-light studies using a 
key close to white, or — it isn’t." 

I’ll come,’’ said Oliver ; I mean it." 

‘‘To-morrow? I’ll give you a dinner — not much 
of a dinner. Come at five, will you ? " 


AN INTERLUDE. 


75 


Oliver thanked him and Trivol thanked Oliver 
and strolled off to show the sweet-faced, brown-eyed 
hat model how to tune her lute. 

Not much of a tuner,'' Oliver heard him say 
as he receded into perspective. 

It was strange, the whole thing ; — it was bizarre 
to a degree. 

Oliver sat down beside a young girl who had her 
back turned to him. Hesitating whether to speak 
to her, merely because he liked the shape of her 
back, he decided not to when she looked over her 
shoulder at him with the faintest shadow of amuse- 
ment in her blue eyes. 

‘‘ You thought I was much younger, didn't you ? '' 
she asked. 

‘‘ No," said Oliver, recognising the young divorcee 
whose absent husband he had busied himself about ; 
‘‘ but I did not know when I sat down that it was 
you who played the harp. ' 

Do you play ? " she asked, turning half way 
toward him. Her gown was tinctured with the 
odour of mignonette ; — too apparent. 

“ No. Your playing was pleasant. I care a 
great deal for the harp. I wish I could talk music." 

She was very young, scarcely nineteen. 

I only feel like talking about music — or love," 
she said, trying to frighten him. 

‘‘You make music," said Oliver, coolly, “ I have 
heard you ; now I can make love. Will you hear 
me ? " 

“ As well as I make music ? " she asked seriously. 


76 


OUTSIDERS. 


“What are you, a writer? There’s ink on your 
cuff — no, there isn’t. Are you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Oliver laughing, tempted to add 
Trivol’s valedictory modification. “But I am hu- 
man too,” he ended, looking at both cuffs. 

“ The realists in literature make us sorry we are 
human ; the romanticists make us grateful,’' said 
the girl. “ Which are you ? ” 

“ Don’t be afraid,” he said ; “ I could not make any- 
body sorry that you are human.” 

“ Being divine ? ” she asked innocently. “ See 
how I have to teach you to make love after all. 
Have you seen Mr. Weyward’s collection of slip- 
pers? ” 

“Yes,” said Oliver. 

“ Why don’t you begin one — now ? ” 

He met her pretty blue eyes steadily for a mo- 
ment — then his gave way. Under her gown’s flimsy 
edge he caught the glimpse of a slipper’s narrow 
toe tapping the polished floor. The odour of 
mignonette grew sweeter. It was in her slippers, 
perhaps. 

After she had done what damage she cared to she 
sent Oliver for an ice. He found the ice but he did 
not find her again. 

Once or twice that evening he caught a glimpse 
of another figure that seemed to him curi- 
ously familiar, but he never could get a good view 
of the face. It was the figure of a girl in a flimsy 
billowy evening gown, a woman beautifully poised, 
rounded and firm of arm and shoulder, with small. 


AN INTERLUDE. 7/ 

well-shaped head and a knot of burnished hair low 
in the neck. 

Before he went to make his adieu to Weyward he 
tried to find her again and could not, but, as he 
started to go, he caught a glimpse of her back as 
she left the door. 

He went out of the same door, glancing curiously 
into the street — for he would have liked to have seen 
her face — then he climbed the stairs. The next mo- 
ment he saw her on the landing above him, stand- 
ing in the dim gas-light, and as he passed her in 
the hallway, he turned his head. 

It was Dulcie Wyvern, transformed by her eve- 
ning gown, — tall, superb of limb and figure, with 
the white, youthful face of a school-girl on a neck 
of ivory. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


THE STORY PROGRESSES. 

In which two people surprise a secret and a young man adds 
to his collection. 

She looked up with a breathless smile ; he bowed 
and passed on, surprised and amused that it should 
have been Dulcie Wyvern he had been dodging after 
at Weyward's, — marvelling a little too that Weyward 
had found in her the material for a guest. 

He unlocked his door, entered, and sat down for 
that ten minutes’ retrospective reverie outsiders in- 
dulge in after an evening away from familiar sur- 
roundings. 

There was a mirror opposite ; he raised his head 
and met his own reflected eyes faintly smiling. 

He hesitated to undress, to discard the cool, well- 
fitting garments of ceremony, now that his brief 
play-hour had ended. Outsiders feel their poverty 
most at night ; their evening dress is a hyphen con- 
necting them with all that is fair and gay and 
bright — all that is beyond their reach. 

Indeed,” he said under his breath, with scarcely 
a shade of mockery, fine feathers make fine birds 
and borrowed plumes encourage self-respect. 
Thrice is he armed whose trousers fit , and triple 


THE STORY PROGRESSES. 79 

chance in life has he with habit costlier than his 
purse can buy ! 

Yes, his brief play hour was ended — and the city 
waited there, outside his window. But he would 
not think of that just yet ; the pale candle flare 
was in his eyes and in his ears the sound of pleasant 
voices, already distant, already fading, — and he 
must hasten to re-enter the dissolving pageant ere 
the visions turned to spectres, ere colour fled and 
the phantom candles were snuffed out and the 
voices echoed sadness. 

He leaned toward the imaginary warmth of an 
empty fire-place, to see pictures pass before his 
eyes. 

And they passed, ghosts of the hour before, 
under Weyward’s candles, with the noiseless flutter 
of fans, with echoless laughter and the soundless 
harp-strings mutely quivering. 

The vision soothed him, the grey procession grew 
greyer, then silvery, illuminated by candles — no, 
stars. A pale veil began to settle over all — over 
him too. It was slumber. 

When, no longer stirring, he dreamed on, close 
to sleep, though not yet sleeping, far away he heard 
a tapping at a door — very soft, closer now, and now 
so close that he stirred and his eyes opened. 

He sat up ; somebody was^ knocking at his 
chamber door. 

It is I,'’ came a whisper ; I know I should 
not. Are you asleep ? ’’ 

Is it you, Dulcie ? he said, not yet free from 


8o 


OUTSIDERS. 


the veil of slumber and the companionship of 
the phantom he was following through dream- 
land. 

He was in that dreamy humour that found 
companionship welcome, and he did not stop to 
care what his words might mean. Besides, two 
people in a dark and sleeping house, whispering 
together, find their isolation in itself a confidence 
unpremeditated. 

“ If I come in — and sit there — just for a minute — 
on that arm chair ** she whispered. 

“ Come in,” he said, it would be a wicked 
chance to miss.” 

She slipped in and sat on the edge of the arm- 
chair. After he had been talking for a few minutes 
she nestled down in the big chair, head resting, 
bare arms over the carved mahogany. 

‘‘ Of course,” he ended, ‘‘ if anybody should 
catch us it would be scandalous — if they don’t — 
and that’s the curious part of it — there is no scandal, 
as the only reason for scandal would be in some- 
body finding out how innocently two people can be 
awful.” 

“ I am going in a moment,” she said ; “ I couldn’t 
bear to undress when I was not tired and my gown 
was so pretty and — I did have such a good time ! ” 

‘*So you know Weyward,” he said. 

“ I — I don’t. I saw him first one day in a cross- 
town car — I saw you too ” 

“ And I you,” he said, smiling. 

Then, one evening when I came home, he was 


THE STORY PROGRESSES. 


8l 


in the hallway unlocking his door. He turned 
around and invited me — but in a way, you know — ’’ 

‘‘Not impertinent? ’’ he asked mischievously. 

“ No — although it was, perhaps. But somehow I 
felt that I was going to miss something important 
if I did not go to-night. And oh ! — I am so glad I 
did go. And to think you were there too ! 

“ Really,” he said, “ did you not see me 
there ? ” 

“ I thought I did see you, once or twice,” she 
said truthfully, “but you always had your back 
turned and I could not be sure. Somehow I 
couldn't find you. When I left I meant to wait 
and see if you came in. Did you hear me singing 
— the air, I mean, — while they all were carrying on 
the serenade, — and the blue-eyed girl and the 
harp ” 

“ Was that your voice ? ” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, my voice. I had never until then heard 
that serenade. What a strange, strange evening — 
not like a dream, but like something that ought to 
be always, but never is.” 

She went on, opening one hand for emphasis ; 

“ I care for all that ; I want what I had there, 
freedom ! ” 

“ The rest,” she continued, “ all that will come 
to-morrow and the next day and the next, makes 
me wish the more for this evening. I don't know : 
I feel that things are wrong somewhere near me — 
but I can't see them. Is this the world we cried 
after in Notre Dame? ” 


82 


OUTSIDERS. 


This is the world/' he said, “ as seen from your 
window in Long Acre." 

‘‘Then it is not what I thought. Yet I do have 
good times, upstairs with Violet and the others — " 

She stopped short. 

“ Well ? " he said quietly. 

“ Did you see them — Violet and the others? Do 
you find them interesting? " 

He nodded, watching her with inattentive eyes. 

She spoke of the three girls, of her own solitude 
except for them, of childish frolics and immature 
escapades innocently risky. He listened absently. 
She asked him if he cared to visit Weyward again. 

“ When things go better with me," he said, “ I 
am going away." 

She rose’from her chair. Over her bare shoulders, 
through the dusky, gas-blurred window, he saw 
dawn painting a ghastly frieze across the east. 

And, with dawn, the vision of his play-hour van- 
ished, leaving fatigue and dull mistrust, and the 
questions of life to be answered once more. 

Then he saw her, between him and the window, 
with the grey dawn tinting arms and neck and the 
gas-light staining her gown ; and, under her eyes, 
shadows like velvet shading velvet. 

“ This is all wrong," he said. “ It is morning." 

“ Oh — if they come — yes. But I am to sleep up- 
stairs with Sylvia. Mama said I might to-night. I 
have the key hidden away under the mat." 

She added : “ I don’t mean to say that Mama 
knew I was going out of the house." 


THE STORY PROGRESSES. 


83 


He had thought for some time that Mrs. Wyvern 
cared little what her daughter did. It was dawning 
on Dulcie, too. 

“ If I could find employment/* she said musingly. 

He too sought employment; he was thinking of 
it then. 

She lingered a while, wistfully watching him, 
knowing he was in trouble — but not knowing how 
near its shadow had crept toward her. Then she 
went away saying she was tired and would slip in 
to sleep with her mother. 

He stood near the window, pulling at the fringed 
curtains, scarcely heeding her ; for, already, through 
the blank void of paling formless shadow, the iron 
monster outside was taking shape and substance — 
the misshapen, million-ribbed thing, wrapped in 
stupor. 

Yes, that was the enemy, that huge articulated 
rusting bulk, digging its million fangs and claws 
and suckers into the strip of rock and sand that lay 
between two rivers and an ocean. A city? No, a 
gigantic parasite glued leech-like to an island — cov- 
ering it, bedded on its bowels, stupefied to satiation. 

Morning came creeping across the world. Colour- 
less, sad, the city emerged from vapoury shadow 
and a phantom of shapeless chaos. 

Had morning crossed the continents and the 
seven seas for this ! — to reveal this hideous wilder- 
ness of steel, this plaster desert choked with brick 
and refuse, sweating steam, reeking with smoke 
from countless craters, — this awful mockery of a 


84 


OUTSIDERS. 


human refuge, this cage, this devil’s trap, imitat- 
ing the homes and marts and haunts of men ! 

Loathing it, he stared out into the grey day- 
break. It had caught him too, and he hated it. 
Was it for this that he had come back after many 
years ? Could it be he, trapped here, where even 
those who paced the cage with him ignored him, 
where the scuttling crush of imprisoned creatures 
scoured the cage for scraps, finding subsistence 
where he found nothing! 

Caged, trampled by the caged, so hopeless in his 
isolation, so ignorant, so unprepared, he felt the 
weight of every brick of every iron girder crushing 
him, forcing him under, the better to hold him 
down where all could spurn him. 

Spurn him ! Aye, him and his, all he had. The 
yelling echoes from the streets stunned him ; in his 
ears, jarring and clashing, the din from wall to pave- 
ment struck at him, warning him back, fiercely, 
smiting him again in echoes that mocked him for 
what he shrank from, and cursed him for what he 
was, a helpless living thing, useless to man. 

‘‘But,” he said aloud, “they cannot silence me.” 

He looked around from the window. Dulcie 
had gone. He turned the gas out ; the livid light 
in the room was enough. 

The door, still ajar, opened on the hallway, where 
the gas burned, turned low. 

There were sounds in the hallway, too; some- 
body passed his door going toward the street stair- 
way — a man’s heavy familiar figure slinking past in 


THE STORY PROGRESSES. 8$ 

furtive silence, treading softly as a cat among 
glasses. 

He closed his door, careless who heard him — in- 
different to the sleeping house, and the woman 
somewhere awake within — and the startled man 
slinking away through the empty street below. 

Anger succeeded contempt as he thought of the 
young girl and what she must one day learn in this 
house that stifled him already with its squalid 
secret. 

Then he slept on his pillow ; while, at her moth- 
er’s door, the young girl, trembling in her ball- 
gown, crouched behind the curtains. 

For the secret was no secret now to her! Dry- 
lipped, dry-eyed, she shrank from her mother’s 
door, away, anywhere, falling there on the stairs to 
hide her face in her hair. 

A sound turned the scarlet shame on neck and 
cheek to whitest terror. A cab stopped in the 
street outside ; Weyward unlocked the door, and 
sauntered in. He did not see her. To find his 
door-key he felt in the pockets of his evening 
clothes, searching them carefully ; and he found 
his keys in his breast-pocket, tied in a glove which 
he drew from the satin depths of a tiny white slip- 
per. 

She dared not stir until he had entered his rooms. 

He left his door open, perhaps for air. She 
heard him whistling gaily as he moved among the 
wrecks of a fete, still heavy with the odour of stale 
roses. Why should he not be cheerful? He had 


86 


OUTSIDERS. 


added to his cabinet a slipper of satin, delicate, 
high-heeled, and faintly perfumed with the scent 
of mignonette. 

Presently he closed the door. 

When she rose from the stairs, her hair veiled 
her face. Eyes and cheeks were dry and hot and 
the fever of shame throbbed in her burning lips. 

She stood at her mother's door, until the sun 
stole through the hall and the blue dog stirred 
within, shaking its tin bells. 

Inside the room the mother slept heavily ; out- 
side, the daughter leaned against the door, tearless 
and voiceless, fearing the sleeping thing within. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A JOURNEY NOWHERE. 

Being an account of the wanderings of a bankrupt young 
man, and the results of day-dreams in the open air. 

In August, Oliver left Mrs. Wyvern's. His 
money was nearly gone ; his bill there took all he had 
left, — and a little more, which he raised at a pawn- 
shop. 

What articles remained, he managed to pledge 
for a few dollars more, and, with this money, a va- 
lise packed with two manuscripts, a cake of soap, 
and a comb, he went out into Long Acre Square, 
well dressed and groomed as usual, wearing on his 
back the only garments he possessed, — and in his 
button hole a white pink, Dulcie’s offering at part- 
ing. 

He was neither appalled nor dismayed ; he was 
glad to leave the house with its secrets and squalid 
intrigues; he was glad to go out, almost penniless as 
he was, into the dusty jaws of the city that he hated. 

But his face clouded as he remembered that Wey- 
ward had seen him entering a pawn-shop, once 
when hunger drove him. And when that night, 
Weyward came and begged him to borrow what he 
wanted, he remembered the humiliation his refusal 


88 


OUTSIDERS. 


cost them both, endangering their friendship, 
straining their courtesy, until Weyward left the 
room, polite but furious, and Oliver went that night 
to leave his watch and chain with Cohen. 

Once he met Violet Highlands and Sylvia Tring 
in the hallway, and promised to call again. He did 
not go, however ; he did not even keep his promise 
to Trivol, but sent a note of excuse. Among the 
weak, misery loves company of any kind ; among 
the sound in mind and body, unhappiness seeks 
solitude. Solitude is a balm, to be taken cautiously, 
— a medicine that even the poor can afford. 

It is not strange, perhaps, but Oliver suffered less 
from mental unhappiness and actual hunger than he 
did from his longing to smoke. The desire tortured 
him. 

The smell from the clay pipe of a labourer pass- 
ing seemed delicious ; he would walk sometimes in 
shady squares where men sat smoking, trying to 
subdue his craving. 

But now, standing there in the white sunshine of 
Long Acre, not knowing where in the world to go, 
he felt a curious ease, almost a lightheartedness, in 
his vagabond freedom. 

An incident that had amused him years before 
came back to mind and made him smile. He re- 
membered another amusing episode that occurred 
two days before, when he received a personal note 
from Dawson Klaw, saying that his young friend 
Mr. Weyward had spoken so highly of Mr. Lock's 
work " that he and brother Rogueby and brother 


A JOURNEY NOWHERE. 89 

Magnelius would be willing consider another 
manuscript, with a view to publication.” 

And Oliver had taken the note to Weyward, say- 
ing; ^‘You're a good fellow, but Td throw the 
story down the sewer before I’d have that blue dog 
touch it ! ” 

You can’t afford to talk that way!” said 
Weyward, amused. 

He was a young fool ; anybody will agree with 
Weyward that he could not afford to talk that way. 

He was a fool ; he knew it ; he knew that Wey- 
ward knew it. 

Not if I were starving, Weyward, my dear fel- 
low,” he said ; but it was very kind in you to use 
your influence.” 

He had not seen Weyward since ; he preferred 
not to. Some day when success was dawning — 
well, he would be very glad to see Duncan Wey- 
ward then. 

The sunshine seemed almost cool in Long Acre 
Square : the morning grew breezy, the sky dappled 
its azure with silver fleece and white mare’s-tails 
sweeping to the zenith. 

He thought of Dulcie Wyvern, saddened to re- 
member her. 

Alone, worse than alone in the world — for a child 
with nothing but itself to question, answers some 
questions by instinct — the girl was learning that 
wisdom that meant unhappiness or indifference. 

He imagined she suspected the house’s sickly se- 
cret ; he did not know she knew it all. 


90 


OUTSIDERS. 


She had changed within a week ; there was a fev- 
erish uncertainty in her voice and movements, a 
light in her grey eyes that he did not understand. 

She spent all her time with Sylvia and Mazie 
now ; he saw her once or twice in the hallway, but 
his own trouble lay heavy upon him and he did not 
know how heavy hers was nor could he ask, even 
though his pity left him looking after her when she 
passed on her narrow way. 

With a single shirt to his back and a valise full of 
folios type-written and soiled, swinging his valise, 
he walked straight into the city’s smoky maw, and 
down its growling gullet, where Broadway, vomit- 
ing dust and vehicles and hurrying human things, 
gaped for him with ribs of iron distended. 

He had his shoes polished, not grudging the 
money. Besides, the operation gave him a few 
more minutes to decide which road to take. 

To people passing who glanced at him he ap- 
peared to be some young man of leisure returning 
from the country to resume his profession. For he 
had that figure and presence that go with ease and 
breeding, and any clothes on him always appeared 
fresh and smartly cut. Then, too, he had the kind 
of head that hats look well on ; and there ^as 
something about his linen that suggested leisure 
for minute attention to details. As for the ensemble, 
including the white pink in his buttonhole, it cer- 
tainly confirmed the suspicion of affluence and 
many baths. 

That he carried his own portmanteau signified 


A JOURNEY NOWHERE. 


91 


nothing in New York, that he gave a small tip to 
the Italian who brushed him, corroborated previous 
conclusions. 

A ragged urchin offered him the morning papers, 
a Greek rose-peddler besieged him and followed 
him for a block ; cabmen perched high on well-kept 
hansoms said : ‘‘ Cab to the ferry, sir ? Grand Cen- 
tral Depot ? 

The current of the human tide at that hour sets 
due south through the grand canon of Broadway; 
it carried him with it past acres of plate-glass win- 
dows, still gay, though depleted, for the autumn 
stock had not yet taken the place of summer’s 
slightly wdlted fabrics. 

The theatres were closed, entrances choked with 
weather-stained bill-boards trumpeting some attrac- 
tion long dead and ended, or promising future won- 
ders for the autumn. There was much dust on 
plate-glass door, on coloured globe and cherrywood 
foyer. One or two fat-faced men wearing unclean 
billy-cock hats, haunted the empty lobbies, chewing 
tooth-picks. 

The dirty, yellow brick pile of the Opera, with 
its sad lime-kiln chimney, gave him, under its rusty 
iron awning, a moment’s breathing space. Across 
the street the mangled fragment of Moorish con- 
struction, disfigured with fire escapes by law-abid- 
ing tribes, bulged into view, crowding its red-brick 
on the attention of the passing gentile and the 
stranger without the gate. 

Oliver passed on, serenely conscious of the hurry 


92 


OUTSIDERS. 


and crush around him, glancing into strange faces 
with that glimmer of human interest that is neither 
curiosity, insolence nor fat stupidity. 

Pale-faced shop girls found nothing unpleasant 
in his eyes, tired-eyed young men regarded him 
amiably. Here and there the dark face of a Jew with 
heavy-lidded, shifting eyes attracted his passing 
notice, reminding him of boulevards in other lands 
and the gilt facades of eaf^s. 

He passed Romayne's Theatre, looking up at the 
harmless, meaningless front, wondering a little why 
Octavius Romayne, greatest of American Mana- 
gers, should care so little for art at his own door- 
step. 

Inside the lobby there were framed photographs 
of the famous company; he lingered a moment be- 
fore the noble beauty of Ida Mohun, the kindly, 
wrinkled face of Mrs. Billington, the girlish sweet- 
ness of Marie Swift. 

There was a photograph of Octavius Romayne 
himself among his company, famous collar and all. 

In Madison Square he sat him down, not choos- 
ing to soil his collar with perspiration, — and indeed, 
there was no reason for haste, because his destina- 
tion might lie the other way for all he knew. 

It was cool under the trees ; a few nurse-maids 
wheeled human embryos about in the dappled sun- 
light and shadow, a few tired men dozed on the 
benches or, dusty legs crossed, read listlessly in 
soiled newspapers of the day before. There was a 
pleasant noise of water falling, the still music of 


A JOURNEY NOWHERE. 


93 


moving leaves above, the voices and laughter of 
little children ; — and over all the divine blue of 
this western sky of ours, over which a white cloud 
drifted westward, edged with pearl. 

Sun-warmed to a golden tint, the beautiful Square 
tower rose above the trees in the northeast, glowing 
against the blue ; and, below, through the trees, 
dusky silent arcades appeared, a shadowy back- 
ground for green branches. 

Oliver loved the tower, where all day long a golden 
goddess shot her golden arrows into the teeth of the 
four winds, and, all night, her silvery phantom hung 
above the trees bending a silver bow. 

Behind him the noble avenue echoed with the 
flat slap of hoofs on the asphalt, — the rumble of 
battered stages, the silent whirl of hansoms, rubber- 
tired. Before him, across the square, a white 
marble palace of commerce glimmered through the 
trees, hinting of the unquiet thoroughfare beyond. 
But the distant tumult of gong and iron curve came 
to his ears too faintly for offence ; the splash of the 
fountain, there, was louder. There was nothing to 
interrupt his day dream, and he dreamed on in 
peace. 

An hour later, cheered by his idle rest, he stood 
up, freshened by the shadow of living green, ready 
again to set out for nowhere. 

And, as he rose to go, something on his coat at- 
tracted his attention. 

It was his own pocket, turned inside ouL 

Standing there, staring at the empty benches near 


94 


OUTSIDERS. 


him, he felt that the situation was too tragic to es- 
cape that ludicrous element that has dogged the 
dragging feet of tragedy since Abel’s taking off. 

Certainly his position was too absurd ; it contained 
all the material for that bitter national mirth born 
with our ancestors betwixt a pioneer’s stockade and 
a forest full of painted wild men. What on earth 
could he do but laugh ! When, how, where he was 
robbed he had not the slightest idea. There had 
been people near him, that was all he could remem- 
ber. 

After a little while he smiled again, less pleasantly 
than before, then picked up his valise and went his 
way, his guide the weather-vanes, companioned by 
the sparrows, and his own shadow shrinking on the 
pavement. 


CHAPTER X. 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. 

A chapter dealing with some vagrants and Mr, Jack Payser, 

When he had been many days and nights look- 
ing for work to keep his soul and body on neigh- 
bourly terms, he came, on the edge of the evening, 
to a little park, all saffron with the light of sunset, 
dusky and cool under ancient trees where the turf 
was taking on the purple bloom of twilight and a 
placid fountain mirrored a single cloud. 

He sat down, placing his two manuscripts beside 
him on the slatted bench. He had sold his valise 
the week before for a few cents, and the money was 
gone now, except one nickel coin, held tightly in 
the palm of his hand. 

There was a man beside him, wearing shoes with- 
out laces and a coat buttoned to his bony throat ; 
and the fellow coughed and coughed, staring at 
vacancy with sunken eyes. 

Towards twilight the electric lights snapped out 
in violet sparks on every tall green pole : the voices 
of children, playing by the still pool of the foun- 
tain, blended to a murmur ; dusk mantled the foli- 
age under a deepening sky. 

To the south a long line of dull old houses fenced 


96 


OUTSIDERS. 


the square, sombre brick fajades stained by the red 
embers in the west ; on the north side, where the 
quiet asphalt avenue widens into a circle, the white 
arch of marble, tinged with pink, glimmered through 
the sycamores. 

Behind it, north and west, low, monotonous, red- 
brick houses bounded the oasis of green, and in the 
east, grey lime-stone cliffs, piled up cube on cube, 
riddled by little windows, crimsoned with the last 
sparks of the sinking sun. 

The hum and jarring from the great avenues east 
and west reached him fitfully, sounding like the 
rush of hidden waters in a gorge. Shadows came 
and spread their slim patterns over the grass, — 
strange trembling shadows, etchings of foliage and 
tangled branches, where the electric lights sparkled 
through clustered leaves. There were pools of 
white on the asphalt, into which shadowy creatures 
darted, swimming to and fro in the lustre of the 
white lamp, sometimes shrinking, sometimes sud- 
denly magnified in growing distortion, only to fade 
again and dwindle to a quivering patch of grey. 

Looking up he saw the little night-moths hover- 
ing around the hissing lamps ; at his feet errant 
dusk beetles explored the asphalt or hurried past 
toward some unappointed rendezvous, travelling 
tirelessly, each to its own predestined goal. 

And he had none, — no goal, no destination, no 
journey’s end where rest awaited. 

The ragged man beside him moved, muttering to 
himself. 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. 97 

There was a basement brilliantly lighted on the 
south side of the square, where an illuminated sign 
hung: 


SPINKLE BROTHERS, 

ALES, WINES, AND LIQUORS. 


Oliver glanced at the ragged man beside him, 
then rose and started across the square toward the 
illuminated sign of the brothers Spinkle. 

The cellar was neat ; a bar stood along the wall, 
a few tables filled the interior. Several sober-faced 
men played pinochle near a clean but faded billiard 
table ; behind this a well-dressed young fellow 
sipped Rhine wine and stroked two comfortably 
whiskered grey cats. 

What can I get for five cents ? ’’ asked Oliver 
in a low voice. 

‘‘Beer? — Domestic?’' suggested the barkeeper, 
folding two little fat hands on the edge of the 
bar. 

“ Something to eat,” said Oliver faintly. 

The barkeeper retired ; Oliver saw him cutting 
bread at the other end of the bar. 

The sight of food made him weak, almost sick. 

He drank part of the beer, then asked if he might 
carry what remained to a man outside. Spinkle, 
the proprietor, nodded brusquely. 

When Oliver again found the ragged man on the 
bench the fellow was asleep. He started and trem- 
bled as Oliver touched him, perhaps dreading the 


98 


OUTSIDERS. 


merciless cuff of the police or the still more merci- 
less club on the soles of his tattered shoes. 

They ate the sandwiches in silence; the man 
drank what beer was left ; Oliver drank from the 
iron fountain. A lost cur watched him at a respect- 
ful distance, shivering at its own temerity. He gave 
the yellow outcast all he could spare, and the 
creature followed him when he took the empty glass 
back to Spinkle's. 

I am very much obliged to you,'' said Oliver. 

You are quite welcome, sir," replied Spinkle. I 
shall hope to see you again." 

Oliver went out, up the cellar steps to the street. 
John Spinkle gravely polished the wet bar. 

‘'Who was that? " asked the young man behind 
the billiard table, emptying his glass of Rhine wine, 
and flattering both cats impartially till their tails 
stood up rigid. 

“ A gentleman in hard luck," said Spinkle. “ I 
guess he'll sleep in the square to-night." 

The young man, whose name was Payser, said 
nothing more ; the two grey tom-cats purred on his 
knees. Presently he rose, dumping the indignant 
cats onto the floor, and walked briskly over to the 
bar. 

“ How much, J ohnny ? " 

“ Fifty cents, Mr. Payser ; and a sandwich, that's 
fifteen more. " 

Sandwiches had gone up since Oliver bought three 
for five cents. 

“ I guess, Mr. Payser," he said, “ that young gentle- 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. 99 

man is sick. And he won't sleep much, anyway — 
unless you speak to Slyder." 

Slyder was the policeman who haunted the square 
to chase pale-faced urchins from the only bit of 
grass they had ever seen. He also murdered sleep 
and punched the sleeper with buckskin fist. 

'‘Yes, I guess I will speak to Slyder," said Jack 
Payser. 

A few moments later, Mr. Payser found Oliver 
alone; the ragged man had gone. Heaven knows 
where ! — and Oliver sat with the yellow cur under 
the arc-lamps, watching the shadows of the dusk- 
moths in the pools of light at his feet. 

Mr. Payser was a human paradox. Living alone 
in a house fairly crawling with Bohemians he still re- 
mained a frequenter of an exclusive club, and a 
broker in real estate. 

Minutely scrupulous concerning his person, less 
exacting in regard to his ultimate salvation, he was 
a curious contradiction, worshipping high ideals, 
possessing a capacity for dissipation limited only by 
a rebellious liver, practical yet romantic, ascetic yet 
a sybarite, he was both quixotic and keen, cautious 
and impulsive, and a man whose loyalty was 
honoured by his friends and whose honour was a 
proverb even among his enemies. 

It was his quixotic embodiment that approached 
Oliver, and sat down with an airy ease native to 
him. 

" I saw you drop in for a drink at Johnny Spinkle’s 
just now," he said. " I should have bowed but I 
wasn't perfectly sure you remembered me.'* 


100 


OUTSIDERS. 


Oliver raised his head and looked at Payser, but 
without suspicion. 

I remember you/* said Payser, calmly, with a 
glance at the packet of manuscript. “ I haven’t 
seen you at Johnny’s lately.** 

made my first visit to-night,** said Oliver. 

But Jack Payser was not the least abashed. He 
pretended to torture his memory for the location of 
a previous acquaintance with Oliver, until Oliver 
believed that they had met, and suggested Europe. 

It must have been,** said Payser ; it certainly 
must have been in Europe — somewhere. My name 
is John Payser — you may remember ** 

Oliver did not. 

‘‘ I live across the square there,*’ continued Pay- 
ser. ‘‘You probably know lots of men who live in 
the ‘ Monastery,* don*t you ? ** 

“ I know one, ** said Oliver, wearily. 

Jack waited, but Oliver did not volunteer the 
man*s name. 

“ Probably Tom Fydo,** suggested Payser. 

“ I don*t know him,** said Oliver. He began to 
feel the long day*s fatigue ; at moments his head 
ached terribly. 

Jack looked at the manuscripts once more. Oli- 
ver’s name was on the covers. 

“I think I’ve heard Trivol speak of you,** said 
Payser, wondering himself where he had heard that 
name, Oliver Lock. 

“I once met a Mr. Trivol — ” began Oliver, un- 
willing to appear ungracious. 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. lOI 

** Dick Trivol, the artist ? 

Do you know him ? '' asked Oliver. To speak was 
becoming an effort, but he could not fail in courtesy 
to any man. 

“ Rather. He's on my floor. He was at Johnny 
Spinkle’s just before you came in, — with Duncan 
Weyward." 

“ So you know Weyward too ? " 

‘‘ Rather. Who doesn't ? " 

After a moment Oliver said : Is Weyward very 
well known? " 

‘‘ Where he chooses to be," said Payser ; he is 
one of the most run-after men in New York — as 
you probably know." 

I don't," said Oliver, listlessly; ‘^why ?" 

“ Why ? Well, some people run after him because 
he's popular and others because he's the Earl of 
Firth's youngest son. But he's like the rest of us, 
— one of the unclassed — a rank outsider." 

Oliver was silent. 

“By the way," said Payser, “I wonder whether 
you have anything on hand to-night." 

Oliver had not. 

“ Suppose we come across to the Monastery and 
smoke ? " 

Oliver did not smoke. 

“ The man's ill," thought Payser ; “ he can't stay 
here to-night." 

Oliver was certainly not well. 

“ I'll tell you," said the adroit Mr. Payser; “ if 
you'll just step over to the Monastery while I get 


102 


OUTSIDERS. 


my pipe, — would you mind ? Tm miserable without 
it. What do you say, Mr. Lock ? '' 

Mr. Lock said ^‘yes'' in a very weak voice. His 
increasing dizziness frightened him ; he had sud- 
denly become afraid of being left alone. 

They rose and crossed the grass, saluted respect- 
fully by Officer Slyder of the Park Squad ; and 
Payser, pointing to the illuminated windows of the 
Monastery, gave Oliver a brief summary of the 
edifice and its contents. 

They collect rents with fixed bayonets ; the 
agent is afraid to come often. The tenants of the 
Monastery are naturally known as monks and they 
appoint an Abbot every year, whose duties are to 
stand off the agent aided by three chief Friars, se- 
lected to fry and roast brother monks whom they 
suspect of any intention to pay rent.'' 

Oliver scarcely heard him ; his headache deafened 
him, but Payser rattled on amiably : 

Do you see those parlour windows ? Ramon 
Quesada, the Vice-Consul from Yucatan, lives there. 
The rest of that floor is taken by a French noble- 
man, Count Rasta de Camp, who spends years in 
waiting for dynasties and coups (T^tats, Then, Mora 
Lessly, the wit, inhabits the next floor. I don't 
believe he does anything in the world but just in- 
habit places. Tom Fydo, free-lance and critic, 
rooms next. Sidney Jaune, the novelist, who writes 
Volapiik tinctured with a weak solution of Henry 
James and peppered with Cafe Americaine French, 
edits the American edition of The Pmk Rat on the 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. IO3 

same floor. Dick Trivol lives on the top floor; so 
do I ; and directly under me Willy Tockingham 
writes terrible tales of bursting battle bombs until 
the whole shanty rocks and heaves like an aged 
Irishman after pay-day.*' 

They ascended the crumbling brown-stone steps ; 
Payser opened the door with a pass-key. 

It's a hell for rats," he said, ‘‘ so don't mistake 
one for a cat in the dark." 

There was no elevator ; alpine ascents, scantily 
carpeted, led to the summit of the musty structure. 
The hallways smelled of cold gas and coal-gas and 
tobacco and paint ; the tottering mahogany ban- 
isters rattled in their sockets as the two young men 
pressed upward. 

“ Excelsior," observed Payser as they reached the 
top ; ‘‘ pardon me a moment — pray enter, Mr. Lock." 

The two bed-rooms flanking the study were 
bright with gas-light. There was an air of prim 
good taste everywhere ; the furniture was modern 
and handsome and scarce, and the single rug sober 
and costly. An exquisite dry-point by Helleu hung 
over the open fire, a red and black chalk study and 
one of Bethune’s water-colours flanked it. The rest 
of the four walls glittered with books. 

Oliver was scarcely able to stand. He sat in a 
leather easy-chair, listening to Payser rattle on 
about the peculiar brotherhood of the Monastery, 
trying to keep his eyes wide open in the gas-light. 
But the glitter dazzled and wearied him ; under 
his feet the floor seemed to move at moments, and 


104 


OUTSIDERS. 


then he started In spite of himself, as one does on 
the edge of slumber, dreaming of falling. 

Suddenly Payser’s voice ceased ; a moment later 
he heard it again, vague in the distance, receding, 
miles and miles away, growing softer and more 
pleading. 

The amazement of Mr. Payser fluctuated between 
indignation and amusement. But the dark circles 
under Oliver’s eyes told him a story already half 
divined. 

‘‘Case of black eye from the world,” thought 
Payser; “ first round a corker ; world upper-cut him ; 
clinched ; referee ordered them to their corners. 
Fan ’em hard ! ” 

He fanned Oliver vigourously with an imaginary 
towel. 

“ Poor chap,” he said ; “ both peepers closed, — 
solar plexus, too — I guess I’ll see Weyward.” 

He put on his hat and went out. 

There was a chemist’s on the corner ; Payser 
entered and stepped into the closet where a trans- 
mitter, kept for the use of the Monastery, dangled 
in a tarnished receiver. 

“ Central ” was feminine and hostile to that pay 
station ; Payser and Central exchanged lively views 
concerning people who knew their business, before 
he could get Duncan Weyward on the wire. But he 
discovered that young man eventually at the Bronx 
Club and held an earnest conversation with him for 
ten minutes or so. Then Mr. Payser called Central 
again, was ingeniously insulted, but finally found 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. I05 

himself In connection with the Arg'iis Office In Park 
Row. 

The ensuing monologue occasionally degenerated 
into a buzz, punctuated by the tinkling of bells 
and threats on Payser’s part : 

“ Is this the Argus ? 

‘‘ Well, is Colonel Squimp there?’’ 

Don’t lie to me, you little printer’s devil, I know 
he’s there ! ” 


‘'Yes, I’m Mr. Payser- 


“ Hold the wire yourself, you ink-striped, weasel- 
faced ” 


“Hello!” 

“ Hello ! Don’t cut me off yet, I tell you ! ” 


“Take the chewing-gum out of your mouth, I 
can’t hear you.” 

“Yes, I’m holding the wire. Let me alone — 
Hello 1 Is this Colonel Squimp ? ” 

“ Hello, Colonel 1 Yes, I’m Jack Payser. I want 
you to take a serial for the Sunday edition- ” 

“ Don’t want it ? You’ve got to take it 1 ” 


io6 


OUTSIDERS. 


“Yes, you will ! 

“ Don’t swear through the * phone, Colonel ; 
you’ve got to take it. The story is ‘ The Winged 
Boy ’ ; 25,000 words.” 

“ Cleverest chap you ever heard of — the famous 
young European writer, Oliver Lock.” 


“What ? Never heard of him ! Oh, come now, 
Colonel, none of that. If your circulation won’t 
permit you to pay for a good thing ” 


“Very \\\^ Free Lance will take it, then. 

Did I tell you that he refused an offer from Klaw, 
— and Duncan Weyward says the story is fine ? ” 


“What? Yes, — if you can’t pay more. I can 
get twice that from ” 


“ All right ; copy ready Thursday evening. 
Send me a check; I’ll settle with him.” 


“ Don’t swear. Colonel ; it will curdle the gum in 
Central’s ” 


“ Why, Central, were you listening, you naughty 
young thing? My ! What an angry child ! ” 


Crack ! B z z z z — r r r r — z z z z — pop ! — sh — h. 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. I07 

So he hung up the transmitter and walked out. 

When Jack Payser returned to his rooms he was 
annoyed to find Oliver still asleep, head fallen on 
his chest, heavy lines stamped deep under his closed 
eyes. The livid pallour on his guest’s face disturbed 
Mr. Payser ; he hoped that Oliver was not going to 
have something queer. 

But it was only starvation and trouble and the 
beer he had taken at Spinkle’s, and the illness he 
contracted in the nights of fog and chilly starlight. 
His face was ghastly ; his sleep had become a 
stupour. 

Payser hesitated to disturb him ; sleep was not a 
thing to be treated flippantly by Mr. Payser, whose 
acquaintance with that balmy restorer had become 
formal and distant. He went to the door and sum- 
moned his neighbour, Mr. Richard Trivol, who 
presently appeared in pajamas, smoking shag in a 
porcelain pipe. 

^‘Friend of yours up against it?” inquired 
Trivol, wreathing his puzzled face in smoke. 

Jack told him all he knew. 

It’s Oliver Lock,” said Trivol; I’ve an opinion 
— not much of a one — that he’s probably half dead 
with something or other.” 

‘‘ That’s what I say,” muttered Payser ; ‘‘ case of 
dead to the world. We’ll put him in the south 
room, Dick.” 

Oliver did not wake. 

Trivol lifted him with difficulty and laid him on 
the bed in the south room, while Payser convinced 


io8 


OUTSIDERS. 


that he, too, was aiding, ambled along behind Trivol 
waving his arms and breathing deeply. 

I have an idea,'’ said Trivol, not much of an 
idea — but he'll choke to death in that collar." 

Take it off," panted Payser, perspiring in sym- 
pathy with Trivol’s exertions. 

They undressed him easily ; he had pawned 
even his socks and silken underclothes. 

They made him as comfortable as they could, 
then stood beside the bed watching him, sobered by 
the presence of such poverty among them. 

Case of wolf at the door," whispered Payser, 
sincerely affected. 

Not at the door — Oliver had none ; but the wolf 
had been trotting at his heels through sunlight and 
moonlight and the pale lustre of the stars, day after 
day, until at last the trail had stopped for a while, 
there in Washington Square. 

He had been to the office of every newspaper in 
the city ; he had gone the rounds of the publishers 
again, all except Klaw, and the change in his ap- 
pearance had not helped him. 

As long as he did not appear actually disreputable 
he could use soap and water, free of cost, in the 
basements of the great hotels. He had his comb 
and tooth-brush also, but no hope of keeping his 
clothes decent, sleeping in them every night in 
squares or on the foggy piers along the river. 

What money he made was gained partly by sell- 
ing every scrap of clothing except shirt, coat and 
trousers, partly by the few odd jobs he had picked 
up here and there. 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. 109 

He had found it necessary to give up all thoughts 
of writing for the present ; the problem of the hour 
was simpler than attempting to make a living 
through’ the wealthy and benevolent Salmi Cheedle. 
So he made that worn-out request for anything to 
do,” — a request so hopeless, so invariably refused 
with suspicion among our honest merchants. 

Still, he had his two manuscripts, valuable as 
bank-notes to a marooned outcast in the Antipodes. 
And he carried them with him, tying the package 
by a string to his wrist when he slept in the city 
squares. 

Now the tide of chance had cast him high and 
dry across the door-sill of Mr. Payser ; and with 
him it cast another live thing, the outcast cur he 
had fed in the square below. 

What is that yellow dog doing here ? ” asked 
Payser, as the shivering creature, tail humbly tucked 
under, crawled into the open door. 

The dog, at the sound of his voice, betrayed 
symptoms of nervous prostration ; but Trivol leaned 
down and touched its small shaggy head, saying : 

“ It’s a Yorkshire — not much of a one. I’ll take 
it, if you like.” 

Let it alone,” said Payser ungraciously, for the 
dog had crept close to the bed where Oliver lay 
and was sniffing at his hand on the bed’s edge. 

Presently it licked the limp hand, furtively. 

Oh, I can stand a flea or two, I fancy,” observed 
Payser, trying not to pose before Trivol as a double 
Samaritan. ‘‘ Come on down stairs.” 


I lO 


OUTSIDERS. 


They went out, shutting the door, but in a few 
moments Payser returned and sat down beside the 
bed, a prey to serious contemplation. 

He had brought back some meat and milk for 
the dog, an attention appreciated with humility. 
But the dog returned to the hand hanging over the 
bed’s edge. 

An hour later Mr. Payser extinguished the gas 
in Oliver’s room, and sauntered into the small 
library to smoke and dawdle over a book, dropping 
it after awhile to throw poker dice with himself un- 
til the heavy breathing of Oliver in the next room 
made him nervous and then drowsy. 

So, for the first time in many nights, Mr. Payser 
retired to the front bed-room, locked the apart- 
ment, and went to bed, where he wooed sleep with 
a coy persistency that had its effect on that 
shadowy goddess. 

The bells of the night tolled the birth and death 
of Time; a fine rain fell through a mist that 
stretched its spectral tent from river to river. 

Under it the fog horns on the harbour sounded in 
heavy concord till dawn touched the watery waste 
with its grave, grey silence. 

Oliver began to dream at dawn, and through his 
troubled dreams the river-horns blew, breathing of 
distant seas and salt spray flying. 

The wind rose with the sun ; the mist-choked 
square heard it among the tree-tops, soughing, 
breathing of meadows and young forests ; the 
sparrows heard it, promising blue skies and silver 


END OF THE FIRST ROUND. 


1 1 I 


shoals of clouds ; Oliver heard it, sleeping, and the 
nearness of the waking world troubled even his 
slumber — so hard had it been for him, so bitterly 
had he come to know it. 

Yet for a while he clung to the fringes of the 
dark sleep-veil as it lifted from him ; half-awake he 
heard the sparrows chirping ; he heard the hum and 
rumour of life from distances and heights and 
depths ; he felt the trembling of solid things, deep 
bedded, shaken by hidden powers scarcely exerted. 

Into his dream came the iron monster, the terri- 
ble symbol of the city that had crushed him ; his 
ears rang with clanging iron, his head swam under 
the terrific blows of sound ; and the dreadful thing 
came creeping into his dream, a vast living organ- 
ism, all ribs : a hideous skeleton of metal, sweating 
rust, redder than blood, and moving, moving inex- 
orably on him with iron bones creaking as it moved. 

The shroud of sleep lay heavy on his breast, and 
the dream-cry died in his straining throat. 

Toward noon he awakened. There was sunlight 
on the wall, and on the window ledge a sparrow 
chirping. 

Later, a few minutes perhaps, — or hours, or, per- 
haps, days, there came a man who sat beside him si- 
lently, vanishing at times, but always reappearing, 
silent, seated. 


CHAPTER XL 


AN IRON ALTAR. 

In which Oliver suspects that he is endowed with a sixth 
sense. 

When Oliver was well enough to know that he 
had been ill, the first fresh breath of September had 
turned the maples in Washington Square to a 
golden green and spotted the bronzed elm leaves 
with ashy purple. 

He no longer occupied Payser’s rear bed-room ; 
he had a room of his own facing the square, a small 
affair dingily furnished, and for which he was ex- 
pected to pay a few dollars a month. 

He was well enough to sit by the window and 
watch the children at play around the fountain — 
indeed, he wished to go out into the park, but Pay- 
ser had taken away his shoes as a precaution, and 
there was nothing to do but fret or make the best 
of it. 

He fretted a great deal ; he was amazed and in- 
dignant when Payser handed him the check for the 
serialisation of “ The Winged Boy,” but when he 
remembered that the money made him independ- 
ent for the time being, and when he understood 
the delicacy of Jack Payser’s motive in disposing of 


AN IRON ALTAR. 


II3 

the serial rights to the Argus while he lay delirious 
with typhoid-malaria, penniless among strangers, he 
began to realise how much he owed to Jack Pay sen 

The worth of a thing is best known by the want 
of it ; and Oliver, at his window on the top floor of 
the Monastery, looked out at the healthy people has- 
tening to their stations throughout the city where 
the strife for life was renewed with the morning 
sunshine and the factory whistles sounded the 
assembly from the Battery to the Bronx and from 
the Sound to the sea. 

Oliver believed that the world owed him a living ; 
it takes an expert to find out how insolvent the 
world is. The older the creditor the less he is will- 
ing to accept on the dollar from that battered old 
bankrupt and habitual repudiator, the world. 

Except for his desire to rise on his hind legs 
and butt the world again, he was comfortable enough. 
His meals were sent to his room from Spinkle's, 
his bill there was very small, and the doctor's 
bill was nominal. Both could be paid with the 
money from his ‘'Winged Boy,” leaving him nearly 
a hundred and fifty dollars. As for the rent, 
Payser told him to dismiss the idea of any such 
tribute until the end of the year brought the 
agent to exercise the functions of his unhallowed 
office. 

Oliver had visitors : Weyward sauntered in one 
day to find him sitting sulkily by the window, read- 
ing the latest installment of The Winged Boy ” 
in the Argus, They examined each other silently 


OUTSIDERS. 


1 14 

for a moment, then Oliver laughed outright and 
Weyward grinned, although neither could detect 
anything particularly ludicrous in the situation. 

Weyward’s grim smile seemed to say: “Well, 
young man, youVe made your own bed ; and 
Oliver's defiant laugh meant, “Yes, and I enjoy 
lying on it, too." 

Weyward's malicious smile softened ; Oliver’s 
face was too thin, too pallid for sarcasm. 

“ IVe grown a thicker hide since I saw you," 
said Oliver, leaning his head on his colourless hand ; 
“ I accepted a stranger's invitation to have fits in 
his apartment at his expense." 

“Jack Payser is a good fellow," said Weyward 
briefly. 

He took a chair by the window and lay back, his 
pleasant eyes taking in the meagre details of the 
room and furniture. 

“Last night," he said, glancing across at Oliver, 
“ there was another fete chez moi. Two people 
were plainly looking for you." 

“ Who ? " asked Oliver. 

“ Oh, a little married woman whose fan smells of 
mignonette — for one." ' 

“ And who plays the harp ? " 

Weyward nodded. 

“And the other?" asked Oliver. 

“ Dulcie Wyvern." 

After a silence Oliver raised his head from his hand, 
looking curiously at Weyward as though he would 
ask a question indiscreetly. Perhaps Weyward 


AN IRON ALTAR. 


II5 

understood ; at any rate he shrugged his shoulders, 
saying carelessly that he had not added to his 
collection of slippers. 

‘‘ That is,*' he corrected himself, ‘‘ I received a 
present of a pair of snowshoes from Montreal, but — 
I am not collecting snowshoes." 

“ Once,’* said Oliver, there was a child who began 
a collection of icicles. He started to search for 
specimens in July but tired of it before winter." 

Weyward reddened, then laughed. 

“Your oracle is interpreted," he said; “I hunt 
happiness in youth and tire before age, and odds to 
a penny I’ll try collecting primroses in December." 

He rose and strolled around the room, inspecting 
its native nakedness. 

“ I’ve been in worse shanties," he said ; “ I’m 
worth more money than I want now. Good 
heavens ! money getting is not difficult. The world 
is too easy to live in. Money ? Anybody can 
make money ! I find it in bath-tubs." 

He faced Oliver with a serious smile that was 
only partly mocking : 

“ Starve while you can ! " he said ; “you’ll never 
laugh with a freer heart than when your stomach is 
empty. Poverty can’t last forever ; ease and com- 
petence are sneaking after you now. Stave ’em 
off! Push ’em back! Enjoy your poverty while 
you can ! ’’ 

Oliver, much amused, lay back in his ragged 
armchair, laughing until a faint flush of healthy 
blood gathered on either sharp cheek bone. 


ii6 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘ Money ! ’’ continued Weyward, a trifle more 
earnestly, ‘‘ I don’t care who borrows or steals it 
from me — but don’t touch my fads and tell me 
fables that teach me I’m futile. I’m a lonely man, 
Lock, lonelier, perhaps, for my friends. But I’m glad 
of company — I can’t live without it — anything is 
welcome at times — even women. I’d welcome 
Black Care as a companion to link arms with if he’d 
only follow me. But I go alone — always. Even 
Black Care rides the other way to pass me.” 

Neither spoke again until Weyward picked up 
his hat and gloves. 

‘'I was not serious,” he said pleasantly. ‘‘Too 
many icicles in July would make the search unin- 
teresting.” 

“Yes,” said Oliver, “and — can’t you find that 
things are as well worth while as I find them ? ” 

“Oh, I do, I do, indeed,” said Weyward ; “don’t 
for a moment fancy me blase.” 

He offered his hand and said good-bye, pausing 
in the hallway to add : “ Dulcie Wyvern asked me 
where you lived. I was right in avoiding a reply, 
I fancy ? ” 

“Yes,” said Oliver, not knowing what else to say. 

Now that was a strange request for Dulcie, — no, 
it was not strange at all, it was perfectly simple ; 
and either Weyward’s refusal to reply to an inno- 
cent question — or perhaps Oliver’s own fancy had 
made an incident out of nothing. 

Oliver lay in his big chair all day, watching the 
bronzed foliage, the white marble arch, the fountain 


AN IRON ALTAR. 


II7 

reflecting a sky of intense blue. The voices of the 
children in the square came up faintly to his high 
window, the whir of wheels, the clink of hoofs 
were not unpleasant to him. 

But something had come into his thoughts that 
alternately interested and irritated him ; at any rate 
it annoyed him that Weyward should have found a 
meaning in nothing — a passing word of inquiry — 
courteous or idle. 

To have told her where I lived would have been 
harmless ; to evade an answer gave a fictitious 
importance to an idle inquiry,’' he thought. And 
all the while his eyes followed the little children 
playing around the fountain where the pool, set 
with blue lotus and papyrus bloom, reflected a sky 
now deepening to royal purple. 

He had meant to ask Weyward a question or two 
about Dulcie, but he did not care to be misinter- 
preted. His curiosity ceased with Dulcie ; he had 
almost forgotten Violet Highlands and Sylvia and 
Mazie ; and the scent of mignonette itself was less 
vague than his recollection of her whose fan exhaled 
it. 

Toward evening a waiter with colourless hair^ and 
skin like the epidermis of an infant pig, arrived from 
Spinkle’s with a tray. 

Oliver ate his dinner slowly, eyes still following 
the grey forms of the children playing in the twi- 
light of the square ; and he had finished and flung 
himself back in the easy chair before Payser 
appeared with a cheerful greeting. 


ii8 


OUTSIDERS. 


'‘Hello! Is Spinkle’s fodder all right? You’ll 
be out in a day or two, I fancy. By the way, I hear 
people in Park Row are talking about ‘The Winged 
Boy.’ That’s the entering wedge, Oliver ; let them 
say anything about you as long as they say some- 
thing.” 

" What do they say ? ” asked Oliver, brightening 
up ; — " and who said it ? ” 

" I’ll not prevaricate,” replied Payser with traces 
of gratification ; " that heavy lady who does the 
book notices for the Daily Spy says your story is 
' tainted with shallow perversity ’ — which probably 
signifies something hellish.” 

" Who is she ? ” asked Oliver, wincing. 

" Her name,” said Payser, " is Mrs. Bottom. A re- 
spectable wet nurse might hold similar literary 
convictions. However, hers is not the tribune of 
last resort.” 

" But she is the critic on the Daily Spy — I tell 
you. Jack, that stings.” 

" Do you mean to tell me,” said Payser, " that 
the literary opinion of Mrs. Bottom distresses you ? 
Why, man, nobody who writes cares what the Bot- 
toms of literature think ! ” 

" I do,” said Oliver. 

" No, you don’t ! ” cried Payser ; " I won’t let you ! 
Do you imagine anybody’s literary career was ever 
affected by the criticisms of respectable wet nurses 
of either sex ? Good heaven, man, pity the country 
that exhibits them in its literary tribunes but don’t 


AN IRON ALTAR. II9 

take them more seriously than tabbies at a cat 
show ! ’’ 

Oliver laughed, saying he never imagined that 
any well-meaning old lady could have made him 
feel unhappy about his work. 

It’s my first criticism, you know ; I fancy I 
shall take it less seriously a year hence,” he said ; 
‘‘but to me the Spy is a very formidable enemy. 
A pat on the back hqlps a fellow so much when he 
takes his first step — and ” 

“ Pat on the back ! You’ll get a club on the head 
for your first step,” said Payser. “ Do you fancy 
anybody cares whether you fall and break your 
neck with your first step ? And those few in the 
land who write stories, too, or who criticise because 
they can’t write, — do you suppose it pleases them to 
see you taking any steps of any kind? ’Ware 
brick-bats! And let me inform you at once that 
neither critic nor author cares to have you succeed, 
and national pride in a fellow countryman’s effort 
cuts no figure with critic, author or public. Strange, 
isn’t it, when we have so few — so few Americans to 
take pride in ? Strange, too, because critic and mob 
are eternally howling for native talent and Ameri- 
can authors and the great American novel. But, 
Lord 1 Oliver, our critics are all Bottoms, our 
authors toady to them, our public have nothing to 
gauge high standards by, and — well, you know what 
our publishers are.” 

“ Publishers — yes,” said Oliver, thinking of By- 
ron’s nasty epigram ; “ but. Jack, you needn’t tell me 


120 


OUTSIDERS. 


that my brother authors wish me ill, and you need 
not expect me to believe that all critics are Bottoms 
any more than all Bottoms are critics. As for the 
public, you idiot, it takes our own people to appre- 
ciate what is good here and abroad, and there’s 
more than one nation waits for its cue from public 
opinion in America.” 

‘'Which is all very fine,” said Jack Payser, “and 
your opinion will certainly be strengthened if the 
American public take to you.” 

“ It will,” said Oliver serenely. 

“ Meanwhile,” continued Jack, “ I heard more 
opinions expressed about ‘ The Winged Boy.’ 
Want to hear some ?” 

“ Go on.” 

“ Marc Zisco, the English critic, who, Tom Fydo 
says, is sure to ghetto-way with his share of Ameri- 
can dollars, said that the boy who wrote ‘ The 
Winged Boy ’ was a boy winged, and badly, too. 
Of course he’s clever, but it’s no sport to kick a 
badger in the bag. The Gentile at least draws the 
game before the hounds pitch in. But that’s a 
question of white skins and red sporting blood ; 
and a dog that stands rabbits will throw a litter 
that stands cats. Want another’s opinion?” 

“Yes,” said Oliver, feeling very unhappy. 

“ Pimly Pynt, editor of Klaw’s Manuscript 
Magazine^ says that ‘The Winged Boy ’ is a most 
unimportant contribution to literature but might 
be popular in Painted Post sewing circles. I have 
the clipping; do you care to see it? Here is the 


AN IRON ALTAR. 


I2i 

clipping from Mrs. Bottom and here’s the child of the 
Ghetto’s epigram. Here’s one more from Sidney 
Jaune, — an editorial in the American edition of 
The Pink Rat, which I fancy, from its aroma, is 
not only pink but pinked.” 

“But,” said Oliver, “Sidney Jaune’s opinion is 
as important as Henry James.” 

“ Exactly ; it’s the same opinion. Every opinion 
that Sidney Jaune ever held in trust is just as im- 
portant as when first presented to him by Henry 
James.” 

The mocking acrid humour of Jack Payser struck 
a discord in Oliver’s heart. His sneer at all that 
Oliver unconsciously respected left the same hurt 
impression that Weyward’s irreverence for Dawson 
Klaw had left. , He read Sidney Jaune’s unfavour- 
able fling at “ The Winged Boy ” in silence, then he 
read the other clippings, sick at heart. 

“Sidney Jaune writes perverted stories in James 
jargon and Paris patois. Marc Zisco criticises old 
English in old do’ English ; Pimly Pynt writes bril- 
liantly and steers pretty close to blackmail ; and good 
old Mrs. Bottom adores Corelli and Lang and 
doesn’t like Maeterlinck. There’s an array for you, 
Oliver ! I fancy you’re still in the ring.” 

“ Yes,” said Oliver, “ I’m still in the ring.” 

He went to bed early that night, but it was use- 
less for him to think of sleep. 

Even dreaming, he saw the blunt splay thumb of 
Zisco thrust at him, he saw Mrs. Bottom nursing 
Sidney Jaune and a pink rat at the same time. 


122 


OUTSIDERS. 


while she wagged her head at him and made 
faces. 

He awoke laughing ; it was scarcely past mid- 
night. He went to the window where, beneath the 
motionless mass of dark foliage, the electric lights 
spread eccentric shadows over grass and asphalt. 
Above the trees in the north, the round illuminated 
dial of the police-court clock stared like a local 
moon ; and, in the west, he saw the incandescent 
cross, above the Memorial Church, burning in the 
sky. Lights moved along black streets where cabs 
passed between double rows of dim gas lamps, 
stretching into perspective as far as he could see ; 
the white arc-lamps along the noble avenue turned 
the arch to a monument of snow, over which the 
snowy eagle, with carved pinions outstretched, hung 
crucified, a victim to the ignorance of a race that 
learns only through crucifixions. 

At first, as he leaned there from the open window, 
he found the silence grateful. Then little by little 
he became aware that the silence was comparative, 
not absolute, for the ceaseless thrilling undertone 
of metal vibrating, grew as he listened. It was al- 
ways present ; the fable of silence could have no 
meaning here, even for madmen ; the air was never 
still, never a moment's suspension of the iron thrill 
could be hoped for in the iron city, and they who 
searched for silence must have its parody for their 
pains. 

Yet the metallic rhythm was not ungrateful, and, 
if it was a symphony to silence, it was also silence in- 


AN IRON ALTAR. 


123 


carnate compared with the din that rang when the 
iron monster was awake and thrashing with all its 
million metal arms. 

As Oliver stood there, the wind rose, setting the 
wires and cables overhead humming. Something 
in the steel-stringed sweep of the chords found 
faint responses in his heart ; he looked up into vel- 
vet midnight, he looked out into the city= There it 
sprawled, hideous, rusty, unsymmetrical, as though 
a Titan in his wrath had ripped the works from the 
bowels of some gigantic engine and piled them pel- 
mell over the island of Manhattan. 

He remembered how the city had seemed to him 
— a monster, horrible, not even human enough to 
be cruel, but only a dreadful, senseless automaton, 
predestined to pass over him, crush him, and pass 
on. 

Already his fear of the city had given place to an 
indescribable pleasure in it, — a kindliness that 
changed to sympathy, and even now had grown to 
proportions that presaged civic affection. 

He was learning something important too, — he 
discovered that existing measures and standards 
had no application here ; proportion, reticence, 
symmetry, beauty, in their accepted and strictured 
definitions, were terms that either had no meaning 
in this monster city or at least needed new in- 
terpretations. 

Here was a new scale to be applied to new har- 
monies, new chords whose harmony was immensity. 
It needed a sixth sense to distinguish what the 


124 


OUTSIDERS. 


most delicate of ears and eyes found discordant, and 
that sixth sense, germinated through inspiration, 
was a matter of self-cultivation and intense belief 
in its existence. Belief alone should be the key 
unlocking this young mystery, this work of men’s 
hands inscribed with a deeper meaning, this iron 
altar scarring the shores of the new hemisphere. 
And this altar, raised by men whose minds bore no 
memories of the older and gentler civilisation, and 
whose standards were the standards set by nature 
in a hemisphere of wildernesses — this altar had been 
builded with bleeding fingers, brick on brick, steel 
walling steel, conforming to no standard save what 
nature had set before them, in their continent, — 
vastness, height, immensity. 

* *** ** ** 

The flaming cross above the church sank to a 
cinder and went out. 

It was dawn. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE MONASTERY. 

A chapter admitting that we all have sufficient fortitude to 
tolerate the imbecility of others. . 

In the Monastery the Abbot had called the 
brethren to prayerful consideration of impending 
calamity ; they assembled at sundown in the large 
tarnished apartment of Monsieur le Comte Rasta de 
Camp to prepare measures of resistance. For the 
common enemy, who came disguised as an agent, 
had been seen the day previous, surreptitiously 
reconnoitering the Monastery from behind a tree in 
the square opposite, and the tribute due him had 
been long, long overdue. 

The Abbot, otherwise Tom Fydo, was a rosy stout 
gentleman of forty with the jolli^st of smiles, hand- 
some pleasant eyes, and a grey moustache that 
rather suggested the fighting lay brother. Talented, 
clever, often witty, and always amusing, he had the 
roving, adventurous disposition and inconvenient 
honesty that has set the free-lance in his stirrups 
from the days of Don Quixote to the time of Cecil 
Rhodes. 

The Abbot sat in his chair, smoking a cigarette 
and noting the names of the monks who entered the 
faded apartments of the Count Rasta de Camp. 


126 


OUTSIDERS. 


The Count was there, muddy skinned, badly ven- 
tilated, wearing a rose in a suspicious frock coat and 
several stains on his baggy lavender trousers. 

However,*’ said Mora Lessly to Oliver, he’s re- 
trimmed his cuffs,” — a curiously mean remark for a 
wit. Yet, when not busied in being witty, wits are 
pitiably witless. 

Ramon Quesada, Vice Consul for Yucatan, 
sauntered in, a handsome, graceful man whose black, 
curly hair was tipped with silver, — in fact all his 
personal property appeared to be similarly adorned, 
including a silver-mounted cane and a very silvery 
inlaid cigarette holder. Nevertheless, it was unmis- 
takably the gentleman who bowed with scrupulous 
impartiality, who spoke with courtesy unfailing to 
Count Rasta de Camp, whom he disliked, who, when 
Oliver was presented by Jack Payser as a novice in 
the brotherhood, offered his slender, dark-skinned 
hand with the simplicity that gentle breeding alone 
can understand. 

Sidney Jaune of The Pink Rat was there, a 
lank, round-shouldered, unhealthy fellow with eyes 
like the eyes of a homeless cat and long arms that 
dangled when he was silent and jerked when he 
spoke. He spoke a great deal in eager tones inlaid 
with a jargon one hears among newly arrived 
American students in the Latin Quarter. Many 
supposed him to be a Jew. He had a guest with 
him, a disreputable lawyer named Dyke Van Shuy- 
ster. 

Dick Trivol arrived with little Willy Tockingham. 


THE MONASTERY. 


127 


The latter, a sickly, large-headed youth who had re- 
cently published a book of verses under the reassur- 
ing title of Nightmares,” and was now investigating 
some pest-holes in the city for further inspiration, 
came forward modestly to meet Oliver, and con- 
ducted himself with an affected self effacement that 
was in contrast to The Pink Rafs brassy declama- 
tions where the theme was I, my or mine, me, and 
at rare intervals, we, our or ours, us. 

Well,” said Sidney Jaune, coming over to Oliver, 
you’re one of those young authors who are going 
through the process of flaying ! ” 

“You certainly ought to know,” said Oliver, 
thinking of the paragraph in The Phik Rat, He did 
not speak resentfully, although, a week earlier, had 
he met Mr. Sidney Jaune, he would probably have 
pulled what little nose Providence had given to that 
eminent man. 

There may have been something in Oliver’s eyes 
that Sidney Jaune noticed, for those whose courage 
is not in proportion to their spite, watch effects 
very closely. Possibly Sidney Jaune divined what 
might have been, for he laid himself out to be polite 
to a degree that is only inspired by sudden hatrcel 
born of fear. 

So they chatted very amiably together, and ]\] . 
Jaune told Oliver all about the men who continuuu 
to arrive singly or in little groups to take council 
for the common safety. 

There was a handsome, dark-eyed young fellow 
standing by the door, and Oliver asked his name. 


128 


OUTSIDERS. 


With an indescribable sneer Mr. Jaune said he 
didn’t know him but supposed he was a Jew named , 
Ivan Lacroix, who painted nothing of importance 
for Jews of less importance. 

‘‘ Why,” said Oliver, “ I understood you also 
came of Jewish blood.” 

With a ghastly smile Sidney Jaune said that 
Oliver had been misinformed, and presently he went 
away, leaving Oliver uncomfortable. Sidney Jaune 
might or might not have been a Jew; probably he 
was not, although he had that frightful intolerance 
for the race that flames most fiercely in apostates. 

As for Oliver, loyalty was the keystone of his un- 
formed character, and had he been Jew or Turk or 
Congo negro he would have found his pride in the 
blood that flowed in his people’s veins. 

He saw both Trivol and Payser shake hands 
cordially with Ivan Lacroix and presently he also 
met him and was pleasantly impressed with his quiet 
reserve. 

But now the Abbot was rapping for attention 
and the brethren were finding chairs and Count 
Rasta de Camp had posed against a tarnished man- 
tel with that latent negligence that characterised 
d’Orsay in his palmiest days. 

‘‘ There was,” said the Abbot with dignity, 

‘‘ — a young man who said, nit ! 

No rent do I pay — not a bit. 

I’m a jay if I pay ! 

And he was, in a way. 

When they sent him his notice to quit.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


129 


The tragedy of the young man was deeply appre- 
ciated ; even Count Rasta de Camp beat his soiled 
finger tips together and said ‘‘ hear ! hear !'* with 
languid enthusiasm. 

“ Zey say,” said Count RaSta de Camp, 

“ Zat ze Abbot will pay 

To-morrow, to-day, or — someday 
At some date after date, 

But ze ruinous rate 

Of discount explains his delay — ” 

The gibe at the Abbot's known weakness for cash- 
ing notes at any sacrifice was received with amuse- 
ment. 

“ Still,” observed the Abbot gravely, 

‘‘ I think we should pay on account 
A nominal modest amount — 

Produce the piaster 
To stave off disaster 

And further remarks from the Count — 

A tumult followed, punctured by shouts of ; No 
rent ! ” and the Abbot tinkled his bell in vain. At 
length, it was decided to pay a small sum on ac- 
count. This decision was, however, arrived at after 
the Abbot had consulted the fat little lawyer, Van 
Shuyster, a gentleman rarely sober enough to offer 
any opinion on anything. So, following Van Shuy- 
ster’s advice to pay something, the brethren present 
were individually assessed in proportion to the 
amount outstanding against them. This proceeding 
drew forth moans from the Count, who finally 
borrowed the amount required from Oliver, a loan 


130 


OUTSIDERS. 


predestined to repudiation, — and Oliver had been 
warned too. 

There was always a feast after such meetings, 
and, in that Monastery, both refectory and feasts 
were movable. John Spinkle was caterer, the Ab- 
bot presided, flanked by the Vice Consul of Yuca- 
tan and Count Rasta de Camp. The others took 
what chairs were nearest, and Oliver found himself 
seated between Ivan Lacroix and a meagre young 
artist named Veeder, who was languidly patronis- 
ing to men and things. He patronised the butter, 
calling Oliver’s attention to it as a swell bit of 
colour ” ; he referred to a radish as an ‘‘ amusing 
note ” ; he insisted on regarding the Abbot’s merry 
visage as merely a value,” until a biting sarcasm 
from that gentleman drove his attention to feed- 
ing. 

Oliver was relieved when Veeder ceased to paint 
master-pieces in the air with a lean inverted thumb, 
and he got on very well with Ivan Lacroix, who, al- 
though nobody suspected it, was painting a master- 
piece on canvas somewhere near the skylight of 
the Monastery. 

^'The trouble is,” said Ivan, one of my models 
joined a variety show on the road and I expected 
to repaint the figure until a young girl came to me 
last week, quite by accident. She is the prettiest 
model I have ever seen — quite innocent and 
serious.” 

‘‘ I fancy they sometimes are,” said Oliver. 

‘‘Yes — sometimes. I hope you might care to see 


THE MONASTERY. I3I 

the picture — you are very welcome ; I am always 
in my studio.’' 

“That Sheeny,” said Sidney Jaune to Mora 
Lessly, “ is bras dessus bras desous with young 
Lock.” 

“ Brother,” observed Lessly, “ thy tail hangs 
down behind.” 

And^to this Mr. Jaune was compelled to laugh 
because few cared to obtain the animosity of Mora 
Lessly. 

The Abbot was waving a mug and chanting an 
anthem not at all Gregorian ; the Vice Consul of 
Yucatan followed his toast with a courteous cup to 
the United States, after which Sidney Jaune maun- 
dered on for some moments about the mission of 
The Pink Rat until he lost everybody’s attention in 
the excitement of what promised to be a personal 
encounter between Count Rasta de Camp and 
Mora Lessly. 

Count Rasta de Camp was angry, very angry. 
Now there is nothing known to man so ludicrous as 
an angry Frenchman unless it be that same in- 
dividual in a moment of great grief. 

It was the shouts of laughter that stopped the 
carnage, and the Count thought the laughter was 
for Lessly and Lessly thought the Count was the 
object of derision. Later the Count shed a few 
tears at Lessly and all was joyous again, and the 
blond waiter from Spinkle’s with the complexion 
like an infant pig’s brought in another baby keg of 
Wurtzburger, which threatened to consummate the 


13 ^ 


OUTSIDERS. 


destruction of Mr. Veeder, already in a gluttonous 
torpor from over feeding. 

It was the custom of the Monastery on similar 
occasions to receive in some designated studio 
the worldly of the gentler sex. Each monk invited 
whom he chose with due regard to the prejudices 
of the guests invited by his brother monks. They 
were young women who wrote for the daily papers, 
others who adorned the metropolitan stage and 
concert halls, some who painted, some who sang, 
some who composed fashionable garments and 
hats ; others still who were about to do something 
for a living and had not yet decided what to do but 
were waiting for suggestions. 

An invitation to the Monastery was a thing to be 
desired ; the very word “ Bohemian,'* draws certain 
sorts of people as sugar draws cockroaches. 

So when the Abbot arose and began the regular 
benediction : 

‘‘ I am a Bohemian," the cheers drowned his 
voice. 

“ I am a Bohemian," he repeated ; “ nothing that 
I say or do is real and I myself am a myth, credited 
only by those who read about me " 

And the invariable time-honoured formula was 
pronounced to its finish, the Merry Monk" sung 
in chorus, — falsely by the Count, whose voice was 
over-fond and husky — and the brethren separated 
to dress, the rendezvous being fixed for ten o'clock 
at the studio of the unfortunate Trivol, who be- 
wailed his misfortune aloud : 


THE MONASTERY. 


133 


“ It’s not much of a studio, but they’ll break 
things and spill ’em on the floor ; it’s not much of 
^ floor, I know, but it’s all I have to stand on.” 

Oliver’s evening dress being recently rescued 
from the custody of one Emanuel Dinglebaum, was 
in no condition to play its role, although, and the 
paradox is its own explanation, the clothes were 
certain to shine on Oliver’s back. 

For clothes,” observed Jack Payser, mounting 
the cold, black stairway with Oliver, ‘‘the ladies 
you’ll meet care little and wear little.” 

“ That’s peculiarly unattractive to me,” said 
Oliver ; “ I trod the path of the calf some years 
ago.” 

“ Pooh,” said Jack, “you’re not at the end yet — • 
don’t tell me ! I simply pay out more rope when 
the path seems to end. Come on ! Come on ! ” 

“Nonsense,” said Oliver, hanging to the shaky 
banisters. “ I’m going to my room. Haven’t you 
had enough frivol for one night.” 

“No,” said Jack frankly, “and I never had 
enough in all my life — only at times I have indi- 
gestion. You’ll come, now, won’t you? It’s not 
an orgie — but one makes very pleasant acquaint- 
ances sometimes ” 

“ Don’t want pleasant acquaintances,” said Oliver 
laughing; “let go. Jack! I had that sort of thing 
ad nauseam when I was a calf on the rive gauche, 
Allans fiche moi la paix^ hein ! je me sauve / ” 

Sidney Jaune, who, sniffing up from the floor be- 
low, caught the savour of Latin Quarter French, 


134 


OUTSIDERS. 


charged up stairs to patronise the fluent orator, but 
Oliver escaped him and his jargon. 

However, it was a case of frying-pan and fire, for, 
on the top floor Oliver ran plump into Dick Trivol 
escorting three young girls in evening gowns, and 
the delighted chorus of recognition left him no 
doubt of the identity of Mazie McNair, Sylvia 
Tring and Violet Highlands. 

Was Oliver coming? No, he was not. Would* 
he come? No, he would not. And why had he 
not called, and why had he made vain promises, 
and was he not horridly distant and formal? He 
was, he was! But it came from hereditary inabil- 
ity to appreciate the blessings Fortune showered 
upon him. 

‘‘ There's champagne in my studio, and a punch 
— not much of a punch," said Trivol. 

It was probably more of a punch than was good 
for Violet Highlands, for she laughed continually 
and said that Oliver was “ perfectly lovely," 
encouraged by Sylvia, who added that he was 
distinctly cute," — a remark that made him feel 
like resting quietly somewhere behind a locked 
door. 

But they were gay, and bent on mischief, and 
they insisted on locating Oliver’s room, promising 
him visits at unseasonable hours and threatening 
instant invasion amid gales of pointless laugh- 
ter. 

It isn’t that he’s shy," said Mazie, ‘‘he’s spoiled 
— but I don’t wonder ’’ 


THE MONASTERY. 1 35 

Let’s catch him and hug him ! ” suggested 
Sylvia. 

However, to their astonishment, Oliver leaned 
over the banisters, swung Sylvia off her feet, 
coolly kissed her, and told her to run away and play. 

'' If life was not so important just now,” he said, 

rd make it interesting for you all.” And, with a 
polite but malicious smile he vanished into his own 
room, leaving three flushed and nonplussed young 
girls on the stairs. 

An hour later, sitting at his dingy writing table, 
the tumult in Trivol’s studio grew loud enough to 
disturb his thoughts. But he never resented merri- 
ment in others ; he laid down pencil and pad, con- 
tent to wait until the jollity subsided. 

It did not subside. Count Rasta de Camp sang 
fond songs in a fond and tearfully tremulous voice, 
piercing when a climax occurred, like the squeal of 
a passionate rat. Then there were choruses and 
the double grunt of a ’cello and a clamourous pick- 
ing of treble banjo strings and the whoop of a 
throaty soprano. 

Ivan Lacroix came to his door, smiling, both 
hands over his ears : 

Cest trop h la fin — I couldn’t stand it — not 
but what I found it most delightful — only my 
serious little model turned up there. I was dis- 
appointed ” 

I know,” said Oliver, also smiling, but there’s 
so much else to think of. Will you come in ? ” 

‘‘ Thank you — I was going to my studio ; there’s 


136 


OUTSIDERS. 


an idea for a composition bothering me. But I 
won't talk shop " 

“ Talk it ! " said Oliver ; ‘‘ talk shop all the while, 
everywhere, anywhere ! It's the only thing worth 
talking ! " 

They sat late together, and Oliver listened to an 
artist in words tell of his art on canvas. 

Toward midnight Ivan went away with a quiet 
good-night ; and the silence and void he left be- 
hind was slowly filled with a din from below, vaguer 
now, and more vinous. 

The tumult in Trivol's studio was not dying out 
by any means ; flotsam and jetsam from the feast 
floated up stairs and stranded outside his door, — 
Jack Payser and Mazie McNair, demanding ad- 
mittance, Dick Trivol and a strange young lady 
who sang an insipid song through the key-hole in a 
fresh, uneasy voice, — complimentary if unseasonable 
— but irksome to a man who was thinking of some- 
thing else. 

Sidney Jaune came, somewhat drunk, and said 
impudent things in undiscovered French until some- 
body pushed him into his own rooms and locked 
the door on the outside. 

“It's me," said Payser with superb indifference 
for the popular prejudice concerning pronouns; — • 
“ It’s me and 1 m having a good time, old fellow, — 
and there’s a vision in pink on the stairs who shall 
be mine, and there’^' a vision in white — I forget 
where — she’ll be mine too — and the whole place is 
full of visions ’’ 


THE MONASTERY. 


137 


Here he ceased abruptly ; it is possible that 
other visions weaned him away ; at any rate Oliver 
heard nothing more from Jack Payser that night. 

With the passing of Payser the carnival subsided, 
that is in volume. There were cinders left, how- 
ever, the ashes of the revel were not yet cold, but 
Oliver could take up pencil and pad again, to sit, 
idly marking circles and squares on the white 
paper, absorbed in an idea that was slowly becom- 
ing not only a possibility but a desire. 

It was the imperative necessity of attacking a 
theme, and the theme was the iron city. 

Who had sung its splendid discords, its superb 
squalour, its magnificent insignificance ? Who had 
proclaimed its reason, its purpose? 

Who had painted its arid vastness, its iron 
immensity, — who had unmasked its face, — this Cal- 
iban incarnate, this spawn of Setebos, — whose 
hideous face itself was but a mask for others to 
unmask and find another mask of iron below? 

What was it — what was it, then, this iron city — 
a thing to be reduced to type — a problem to be 
solved by rote and rule — a phenomenon to be 
recorded where dry fools sucked dry statistics from 
volumes laboured on by dryer fools? What was it 
• — a sheet of definitions, a pamphlet of names, a 
record of street on street, numbered inanely, a chart 
of a million homes builded above a maze of sewers, 
a recital of church, tower, spire, dome, bridge, 
canal, rivers and bays and the unnumbered sea- 
waves hastening to the port of a thousand sails ? 


138 


OUTSIDERS. 


What was it — why was it ? Surely not for a 
plaything of those who made it — surely not for a 
sanctuary, a retreat, a calm rest from troublous 
toil, — witness the faces that look out of its myriad 
windows ! — witness the human tides racing, ebbing, 
beating from the ocean to the Bronx ! 

Its reason ? Mount to the highest white stone 
cliff, braced with iron girders, bricked brick on 
brick. Count the five Boroughs — Manhattan, Rich- 
mond. Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx; and their 
reason is its reason, and its reason is the reason of 
the sea, set there to reflect the firmament and the 
stars, and to give burial to continents, and little 
ships full of merchandise and dead men. 

The immensity of the theme appalled him, but 
he clung to it the more. The vastness, the almost 
hopeless variety, the absence of all that is estab- 
lished, of all that is typical, bewildered him, but he 
grasped the invisible chaos the tighter, and he set 
his heart to the relentless task. 

“To believe,'' he said aloud, “that the city has 
been here hundreds of years ! and none have 
dared " 

There came a light tapping at his door. 

As he touched the bolt a bell in the city sounded 
midnight. 

No, he would not unbolt the door. 

The last embers of the revel had not yet turned 
cold, for, silhouetted on the camera of his illumi- 
nated ceiling, grey figures flitted, projected from the 
hallway through the uncurtained transom ; and 


THE MONASTERY. 1 39 

there were whisperings and sounds of hushed 
laughter from the dark flights of stairs outside. 

The light from Trivoks transom streamed into 
the black, carpetless hallway ; he looked at the long^ 
thin beam from this beacon of folly, he listened to 
the muffled hum of voices, the faint clinking of 
glass-ware, the sudden gusts of deadened laughter, 
fitful as the rustle of dead leaves drifting. The 
invariable sequence of mirth and soberness, the in- 
exorable pursuit of pleasure by sadness, the hope- 
lessness of separating happiness into its three 
elements, hope, desire and melancholy, need trouble 
no one but him who saddens after dead-sea fruit. 

Already the melancholy of dying mirth oppressed 
him ; he wished the revel would end and leave him 
peace. Not that he was a pessimist — nor a cold 
ignorer of happiness. But he expected nothing 
more of it than it had ever held for him, neither 
was he surprised when it came, nor bitter when it 
passed him by. Its anatomy he knew little about, 
except the wistfulness of desire unfulfilled and the 
faith in its fulfillment. He knew happiness was 
real, he cared little to attempt its synthesis. 

He was alone, sobered by his isolation and the 
great task he had set for himself. A man with a 
secret is never lonely, but he had even parted with 
his secret to Ivan ; and never is a man more alone 
than when he imparts to another the secret of his 
ambition. 

The homeless yellow dog which had followed him 
to Payser’s room that night when he fell ill in the 


140 


OUTSIDERS. 


square below, harboured temporarily by Trivol, 
came to the door outside and scratched diligently 
at the sill. 

Christened ‘‘Grippe*' by Jack in honour of the 
malady most unwelcome in the Monastery, the 
creature passed its days in endless attempts to re- 
join Oliver; and Trivol, finding blandishments, 
flattery and food unavailing, let the dog go where 
its heart inclined, which was to Oliver by the 
shortest cut. But Oliver did not want Grippe. 

Judging by sounds. Grippe had undertaken to 
dig a tunnel under the door, so Oliver rose and pre- 
pared to admit the dog. 

The hallway was lighted by the beam from Tri- 
vol’s transom ; Grippe rushed joyfully in, but Oliver 
did not close the door, for, outside on the landing 
stood a figure in white, quite motionless, eyes fixed 
on his. 

“ Dulcie," he said. 

Grippe, who had been occupied in rushing around 
in circles to relieve the tension of a sentimental dis- 
position, now undertook to climb skyward by way 
of Oliver. Failing in this, he took a ruffle of Dul- 
cie's skirt in his mouth and started back into the 


room. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


■ THE STRIFE FOR LIFE. 

‘‘ In the mud and scum of things y 
There alway^ alway something sings T 

The first hour after midnight sounded from the 
city spires ; the bell-strokes lengthened to a quiver- 
ing monotone, lingering in sad vibrations through 
the room. Dulcie had not spoken ; she lay in the 
great chair beside the lamp-lit table, colourless fin- 
gers holding tight to the upholstered arms, eyes 
fixed on his shadowed face. 

They had been there for half an hour in silence ; 
the dog curled up on the mat between them, nose 
buried in his rusty flank, humble eyes fixed on those 
two motionless people in the lamplight. 

There was a stain of wine on Dulcie’s evening- 
gown, crushed roses at her breast, and roses in her 
cheeks, too, but paler. 

What stains her young soul bore since their last 
parting, he asked himself, at first ; then, impatient 
at pity where he could give no aid, — where he was 
too sensitive to offer that parody of aid called 
good advice ’’ — he waited for her to speak. 

She began at last in timid commonplaces, telling 


142 


OUTSIDERS. 


him of the studio she had just left, and of the eve- 
ning’s gaiety, venturing even to regret that he had 
not been there, and then, reminding him of Wey- 
ward’s strange fete^ and how she had searched for 
him and he for her, she spoke of the weeks since 
they had last met — of that hot morning in Long 
Acre when he had gone away, wearing her white 
flower in his coat. 

‘‘ You stood a long while on the corner ; I watched 
you from the window of your old room,” she 
added. 

He said nothing. 

‘‘You have been ill?” 

“ Yes.” 

She wished him to question her about herself ; 
she was ready to tell ; she needed the relief of ac- 
counting to somebody for all she had done. 

He knew it ; he understood perfectly what lines 
of unwritten tragedy were resolutely stifled by her 
wistful lips. But she could not speak without his 
cue, and he would not give the cue. 

He could do nothing, offer nothing, be nothing 
to her ; he dreaded to hear what was beyond his 
power to console or avert. Words avert nothing ; 
consolation never provides for an hour ahead. 

When again they had grown silent the stillness 
in the room became disturbing. Little sounds were 
magnified : the stealthy whisper of leaves under the 
roof, the breathing of the dog, the repeated thud- 
ding of a great moth against the window panes 


THE STRIFE FOR LIFE. 143 

outside, beating with soft wings for admit- 
tance. 

The electric radiance silver-plated every pane ; 
tangles of clustered leaves swayed in shadow form 
across the white walls; the lamp on the table 
burned lower, throwing a luminous circle on the 
ceiling, in the centre of which a blot of shadow 
trembled. 

What is it, Dulcie ? he asked at last, knowing 
the question was utterly useless to her or to him. 
She answered, telling him all. 

She did not use the word trouble — she did not 
complain. It was a story without romance, with- 
out originality in the telling. The details were 
commonplace, the minute details which she passed 
over must have been sordid. It was the story of 
an outsider among outsiders, — a chapter in the stale 
story of the unclassed. 

It began when Mrs. Wyvern suddenly gave up 
her apartments and moved to an uptown street 
where somebody had thoughtfully provided a hand- 
some house for her. There were servants, too, and 
a brougham, and a whole floor over-decorated for 
Dulcie. 

There, also, Mrs. Wyvern had the opportunity of 
entertaining Mr. Dawson Klaw at dinner every 
evening, and Mr. Dawson appeared more at ease 
than when he used to tip-toe softly through the 
hallways in Long Acre. 

Mrs. Wyvern gave her orders ; the servants, the 
blue dog, and Dulcie obeyed ; and one day Mr. 


144 


OUTSIDERS. 


Dawson Klaw brought a guest to dinner, his brother, 
Mr. Magnelius, who said ‘‘ Aha ! ” several times 
when he was presented to Mrs. Wyvern. He said 
nothing to Dulcie until a week later ; and, when he 
did say something, Dulcie went to Mrs. Wyvern to 
ask why he had said it. 

That night Dulcie left the house, and Sylvia 
Tring found her waiting outside the stage door 
at the Athenian Music Hall, tearless, dazed, faint 
with fatigue. She went home with Sylvia. 

After a few days Mazie McNair, who had served 
an apprenticeship under the milliner, Armand, 
took her to that creator of straw and feather head- 
gear. There Dulcie sold hats to very grand ladies, 
aroused the jealousy of twenty-seven other sales- 
women, procured the hatred of Miss Cohen, and 
misunderstood Monsieur Armand’s effusive kindness 
until offered an opportunity which meant, among 
other questionable advantages, a permanent life of 
leisure. 

There was a model needed at the celebrated 
cloak and mantle makers. Beetle Brothers, on 
Broadway. She stayed until the Beetles became 
intrusive. 

Later she found a place in the chorus at the 
Athenian. She rehearsed with Sylvia and Mazie ; 
the review was billed for October. She had gone 
to be measured for her costume, Azzimonti made 
her shoes, Pairo her wig, and she had been 
quite contented until Benjamin Grittlefeld, owner 


THE STRIFE FOR LIFE. I45 

of the Athenian, offered her a role beyond her 
ambition. 

She was obliged to find something else to do ; 
Sylvia Tringhad once sat for her portrait at exorbi- 
tant recompense ; Mazie knew artists at the Mon- 
astery. Coming alone one rainy day she had 
followed the stairway until it left her at Ivan 
Lacroix's door. She had posed for him, draped. 
He was very kind and absent minded. 

And then ? " asked Oliver. 

She raised her serious grey eyes. 

I mean — what are you to do when Lacroix 
finishes his picture?" 

“ I don't know," said Dulcie. 

He looked at the young girl, at the crushed roses 
on her breast, the long mark of the spilled wine, 
the hands, smooth as a child's, idly interlaced among 
the lace and ruffles in her lap. 

He rose ; the little dog rose too, following him 
gravely in his slow pacing to and fro before the 
windows. 

Dawn whitened the edges of the night ; his lamp- 
wick had died to a coal, and the silver radiance of 
the arc-lights in the street bathed the whole room 
in a wash of silver, over which etched branches 
swayed. 

He stood still a moment, watching the big 
moth fluttering outside the sheeted lustre of the 
panes. 

“ The lamp has gone out," he said ; ‘‘what draws 
that creature here ? " 


146 


OUTSIDERS. 


There is another moth in the room — on the 
curtain/' said Dulcie. 

But Oliver took no pity on the persistent winged 
suitor and the window remained closed. 

It was still starlight, though the eastern sky had 
bleached to grey when he walked with Dulcie 
through the empty park. 

She had rooms with Sylvia and Mazie in a board- 
ing-house facing the square ; she told him that she 
needed nothing, knowing, perhaps, that what she 
had needed had been denied, — she asked him not to 
forget her, not to go away again without a sign to 
her ; for she felt less alone in the city when she 
knew he was within call. 

They stood on the cracked brown-stone steps to- 
gether ; she gave him her latch-key and he opened 
the door. 

‘‘ Try to hold out, Dulcie ; they're liars — every 
one ! " he said. 

“ I know," she replied seriously. 

‘‘And — the danger is everywhere — everywhere — 
at Weyward's, at the Monastery, on the street, here 
in your own house — by day, by night, — you know it, 
Dulcie ? " 

“Yes — the danger " 

“ Everywhere, from men — from the best of them 
particularly ! " 

“ Yes." 

They stood a minute together ; she held tightly 
to his hands, saying that she feared nothing. 


THE STRIFE FOR LIFE. 1 4 / 

So he left her, his hands bearing the imprint of 
hers. 

When again he came to his own room and flung 
up the windows for a breath of dawn, a big moth 
fluttered in, beating wall and ceiling with ragged 
wings. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 

Showing how a man may sometimes he as different from 
himself as he is from his neighbour, 

‘‘ The Winged Boy '' was issued in paper by 
Chatterton Mawly, publisher, New York, Sioux City, 
and Constantinople, — after it had been refused by 
every other reputable and disreputable publisher in 
New York. 

Why Mr. Mawly came, how he came, and from 
whence, Oliver was never able to explain clearly. 

In later years the coming of Mr. Mawly was 
always associated in his mind with a poem of Burns, 
the same being addressed to an insect on a lady’s 
bonnet. 

The advent of Chatterton Mawly was mildly 
dramatic. It occurred one hot afternoon in Septem- 
ber. “ The Winged Boy ” lay on Oliver’s table ; 
Oliver lay on the shabby sofa, writing ; the little 
dog. Grippe, lay around loose, watching shadows 
crawling on the wall. 

When somebody knocked, Oliver sat up ; so did 
the little dog, hostile eyes fixed on the crack under 
the door. 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. I49 

Come in/’ said Oliver, adding under his breath, 
“ shut up ! ” for Grippe’s individual guidance. 

The door opened ; a puff of perfume entered, 
followed by Mr. Chatterton Mawly extending his 
card. 

Even Grippe was nonplussed ; Oliver invited his 
visitor to a seat, then glanced at the card. It was 
large and marbled, and distributed the following in- 
telligence : 


CHATTERTON MAWLY 
Publisher, 

New York Sioux City 

Constantinople 

Mawly’s Monuments of Muscular Literature i $1.00 
^ I paper .50 


Oliver looked up to meet a pair of remarkable 
eyes, eyes that were all surface, variegated curi- 
ously like polished green malachite. 

“ I thank you for your courtesy,” said Mr. Mawly ; 

I consider it an honour to be received by Mr. Oli- 
ver Lock, novelist ! ” 

Oliver bowed his puzzled obligations. 

Mr. Chatterton Mawly’s clothes were interesting 
for their variety and newness, his necktie was a cre- 
ation, his waistcoat much more than an inspiration. 
Adorned with jewelry, exhaling cologne, Mr. Mawly 
fairly crackled in his stiff pink shirt bosom, from the 


OUTSIDERS. 


150 

centre of which a jewel shed a light that never was 
on sea or land. 

But it was his face that puzzled Oliver, a flat, 
heart-shaped face, featureless, save for those pol- 
ished eyes that were not transparent, not even 
translucent, but merely opaque green agates. It 
was true he had a nose ; he also wore a pair of ears 
not ornamental. 

His speech was studied ; he used the word ‘‘ cour- 
tesy continually ; he flourished a silk handkerchief 
wet with perfume until Grippe in his untutored in- 
nocence sneezed, — a proceeding mortifying to Oliver. 

Gradually Mr. Mawly explained his visit ; he 
wanted to pay Oliver five per cent as a testimonial 
of his admiration. Incidentally, in order to relieve 
Oliver of an effusive sense of obligation, Mr. Mawly 
proposed to publish “ The Winged Boy,'’ retaining 
ninety-five per cent of everything accruing from the 
investment. 

It is great,” said Mr. Mawly ; ‘‘ commercially it 
is not valuable, perhaps, but I do not look for pe- 
cuniary returns ; I am satisfied to have that book 
on my list ; I am ready to pay for the honour of 
including your name among the authors represented 
in Mawly 's ‘ Monuments of Muscular Literature.'” 

He snatched a circular from his breast pocket 
and read dramatically : 

‘‘‘Wooed! Not Won,' by the author of ‘Won! 
Not Wooed I ' 

“ ‘ Won ! Not Wooed,' by the author of ‘ Wooed ! 
Not Won ! ' 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 151 

‘ Pinkey’s Ordeal/ by Mrs. Cawn-Craik. 

‘ Cornelia's Atonement/ by the author of ‘ Pin- 
key's Ordeal ! ' 

** ‘ Home Cook Book,' by Mrs. Frye. 

‘ A Woman's Curse,' by Mrs. Bogle. 

** * The Winged Boy ! ' by Oliver Lock ! ! ! 

Chatterton Mawly, Publisher, New York, 
Sioux City, Constantinople ! Mawly 's ‘ Monuments 
of Muscular Literature,' cloth, one dollar, paper, 
fifty cents ! Sold everywhere or sent post-paid on 
receipt of price ! " 

‘‘I think," said Mr. Mawly with a perfumed 
smile, “ no living publisher need blush for such a 
galaxy." 

Indeed," said Oliver politely, but why should 
the author take five per cent and the publisher 
ninety-five ? After all, the author writes the book." 

‘‘He does — I am frank — he does!" said Mr. 
Mawly in an outburst of professional confidence. 
“ But I am about to put hundreds and hundreds of 
dollars into your book, without hope of a return — 
merely for the sake of having your name on my list 
of famous authors included in Mawly's ‘ Monuments 
of Muscular Literature,' cloth, one dollar, paper — " 

“ I know," said Oliver; “ I am inexperienced in 
such matters, but if I am only to receive two or 
three dollars on every hundred books you sell." 

Mr. Mawly's opaque eyes stole around the shabby 
room. 

“ I need money," said Oliver ; “ I hesitate for 
that reason." 


152 


OUTSIDERS. 


Mr. Mawly bowed in recognition of the super- 
fluous information. 

The problem of preserving cordial relations be- 
tween soul and body was not likely to be solved 
through the publication of ‘‘ The Winged Boy/' — 
Oliver understood that. Still he winced at the 
prospect of such meagre returns. 

But there was another side — a view of the situa- 
tion often fatal to the artist, — the longing for a 
public hearing at any sacrifice. 

‘‘ In cloth," said Mr. Mawly, rubbing the solitaire 
on his finger with his coat sleeve, ‘ The Winged 
Boy ' will be included in Mawly's Contemporary 
Classics — ‘The Third Sex' by the author of ‘Was 
She a Woman?' ‘Was She a Woman?' by the 
author of ‘ The Third Sex.' A chaste galaxy, Mr. 
Lock, ain't it ! " 

“ Quite so," said Oliver, “ but the royalty in that 
case will be in proportion to the increase in price, I 
suppose." 

Mr. Mawly said “ certainly" in an absent-minded 
manner, — a forethought that later might enable 
him to interpret the remark as “ certainly not," 
if occasion arose. 

“ As for an agreement in writing, " said Oliver. 

“ Between gentlemen ? " asked Mr. Mawly, with 
eyebrows slightly raised. 

“ I always thought it customary in all matters of 
business," said Oliver. 

Mr. Mawly disabused his mind of the importance 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 1 53 

foolishly accorded to written agreements by a 
venal public. 

“ My ledgers/' said Mn Mawly, “ are always open 
to my friends. Our Mn Welcher will personally 
interpret our system to our authors. Y ou, Mr. Lock, 
understand the finer courtesy that prompts a pub- 
lisher to take an author in — to throw open his ledgers 
to the only individual on earth who can sympathise 
with the publisher who dares ignore sordid routine 
of method. The high-souled author ! I take off my 
hat to him ! " said Mr. Mawly with a gesture as if 
to remove his heart-shaped head from its socket. 

Even Grippe watched the result of this experi- 
ment with interest ; however, Mr. Mawly skillfully 
modified the gesture to an all-embracing wave of 
his perfumed fingers. Grippe barked, then slunk 
under Oliver's chair. 

‘‘Author and publisher!" continued Mr. Mawly 
sentimentally, considering Grippe with opaque 
malevolence ; “ what past glories the linking of 
those two names evokes ! — what treasures of sym- 
pathy, what garlands of tradition, what monuments 
of success 1 " 

“ By ‘ Monuments,’ perhaps he means head- 
stones," thought Oliver. 

“ Author — and — publisher," reflected Mr. Mawly, 
mastering his natural emotion and flourishing his 
hat: “United they stand, divided they fall. Mr. 
Lock, I thank you for the courtesy of your atten- 
tion. It is much to me that I have held the hand 
of Oliver Lock, Author 1 " 


154 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘'When shall I call at your building?** asked 
Oliver, beginning to dislike Mr. Mawly. 

“Hem!** observed Mawley, — “ er — at present, 
pending the selection of apartments suitable for 
Chatterton Mawly, Publisher, New York, Sioux City, 
and Constantinople, — I am temporarily occupying 
offices on Union Square.** 

He wrote the number in pencil and bestowed the 
card on Oliver with benevolence. 

Oliver held the manuscript of “ The Winged Boy **; 
he hesitated to let it go. But Mr. Mawly seized it 
with the playful abandon of a jackal, and hurried 
away, reeking with compliments and peau d’Es- 
pagne. 

“Grippe,** said Oliver, to the little dog, “ if it 
was not for his eyes I should feel that you and I 
have gained an inch or two toward the goal. I — I 
don*t like his eyes. Grippe.** 

Grippe stood up and shook his ochre-coloured 
kinks. 

“ Come, Grippe ! ** 

The little dog sprang into his arms, nestling 
close, brown eyes raised for further instructions. 

There were none ; Grippe subdued emotion and 
gazed out of the window, over the tops of the 
brown foliage, lighted to amber by the western sun. 

Telegraph wires sagging, criss-crossed and inter- 
laced by cables, spread a fine network over the sky 
as though some enormous spider had woven the 
city in his mesh. Like cobwebs, too, the pattern 
of steel strands, radiating into perspective, bore 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. I 55 

shreds of refuse, rotten rags and paper wrecks of 
kites, tattered derelicts that the air currents en- 
tangled in the web, leaving them to dangle and 
flutter and slowly disintegrate. 

The sparrows found a frail foothold on the wires ; 
they passed the windows continually, perching to 
swing or to practice balancing on loose wires, then 
dropping into the air-gulf below, brown wings beat- 
ing the golden air. 

Grippe observed them with impartial defiance ; 
he would have barked if he dared, but, on looking 
at Oliver to see how he might take it, decided to 
suppress the inclination for the present. 

Lately there had come into Oliver’s face the si- 
lent, intent expression that puzzles animals and men. 
Grippe noticed it; Jack Payser, Trivol, Weyward 
and the others had noticed it, too. 

Toward sunset he opened his little book, reading 
at first in silence : 

“Truth indeed came once into the world with 
her divine Master, and was a perfect shape most 
glorious to look on ” 

How the splendid plea for liberty swept through 
his brain, taking shape on his lips in the music of 
the words ! The great symphony roused him as 
trumpets fire a battle-driven animal ; he set his chin 
on his clenched hands and stared hard at the heart 
of things. Strange that the art of seeing is a lost 
art, save to the self-taught. 

Late in the afternoon Weyward strolled in, to 
lounge on the rusty sofa and speculate on Grippe’s 


156 


OUTSIDERS. 


pedigree, and pet the creature too ; for the Anglo- 
Saxon, if he lacks the virtues of the dog, at least 
understands them, where the continental sympa- 
thises more naturally with the ape, and the oriental 
with the cat. 

“ Mixed blood — very,” observed Weyward, gen- 
tly rubbing Grippe under the ears, an attention 
deeply appreciated. Oliver, where did you pick 
up this fellow Mawly ? ” 

He picked me up,” said Oliver, already sorry 
that he had listened to Mr. Mawly. 

“ I fancy,” said Weyward, “he's one of your fly- 
by-nights. Better drop him. Some bats are vam- 
pires too.” 

“ Fve given him the book.” 

“ Take it back.” 

“ And my word.” 

“ Oh,” said Weyward, “ Fm sorry. Is it in writ- 
ing?” 

“ No ; but Fve given him my word.” 

“Well, if it's given it’s given — as far as you are 
concerned. But you had better get Mr. Mawly’s 
word on paper.” 

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Fve sold bath-tubs enough to know the value of 
ink,” said Weyward. “You’ll learn later, I fancy, 
that books are business as well as bath-tubs.” 

He stood up to stretch his well-knit English 
frame ; Grippe stood on his hind feet and placed 
both paws against Wey ward’s knee. 

“Poor old chap,” said Weyward, looking down; 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 


IS7 


take care of your master; he has the wisdom of 
babes, and their capacity for taking care of himself. 
He looks tired too, Grippe.’' 

Pooh,” said Oliver; the truth is, Fm longing 
for a little amusement. Fve gone stale ; my ideas 
are cut and dried ; I fancy I need a little frivolity. 
Did you ever feel as if you might blow up? ” 

Listen to the apostle of self-suppression ! ” com- 
mented Weyward. 

If I had enough money,” continued Oliver sav- 
agely, “ Fd enjoy squandering it all to-night. Fm 
tired of this damned grind. A man gets to a point, 
at times, where he’d annihilate the Decalogue ! ” 
Weyward sat down and drew on his gloves, 
watching Oliver pace the room. 

Oliver,” he said, ‘‘ money is easy to make ; but 
you don’t know how. Now you are selling your 
book to a pirate who’ll never pay you a penny and 
you’re living on the money that Squimp paid 
for the serial rights. That can’t go on ; you know 
it ! ” 

I know it,” said Oliver, sulkily. 

‘‘ And,” continued Weyward, you are up to 
your eyes in some new scheme, — I don’t know what. 
But you’ve got to live meanwhile, and Fm going to 
tell you how to do it whether you like it or not.” 

Oliver laughed in a dry, disagreeable way. Wey- 
ward overlooked it. 

It’s this,” said Weyward ; last month a new 
illustrated weekly was born in town, Zig-Zag, and 
it’s going to be a success, — for a while. Eugene 


158 


OUTSIDERS. 


Smith is owner and editor ; he pays absurdly high 
prices for pictures and writing, but that of course 
won’t last. The paper is going to reach a high cir- 
culation mark, then Smith will drop every expen- 
sive writer and artist, making the same mistake 
that always wrecks papers of that sort. Then the 
paper will go to smash, be revived, go to smither- 
eens, be patched up by some Jew, and finally drag 
along until nobody remembers whether it is alive 
or buried. Meanwhile salaries are high. Would 
you take your chances there? ” 

What chance have I ? ” asked Oliver, sullenly. 

''A good one,” said Weyward, “ if you could 
write a couple of columns a week of that bril- 
liant badinage that your ‘Winged Boy’ is veined 
with. Could you ? ” 

“ I could.” 

“ Would you?” 

“Yes — for a living. I’ve got to live, for I’ve 
something important on hand ” 

Weyward burst out laughing. 

“ If it is very important, you certainly must not 
think of dying just now ! Oliver, would you get 
red in the face and walk around like a stork and 
crush my cordiality with the restrained politeness 
that means ‘ go to hell ! ’ — if I told you that 
Eugene Smith offers you eighty dollars a week?” 

“Thank you, Weyward,” said Oliver. He could 
not trust himself to say more just then, for 
the kindness of Weyward had touched him very 
deeply. 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 1 59 

How kind they were, all these young fellows who 
had closed around him when he stood in direst 
need ! No longer ashamed to accept a favour done 
in a manly way, he only thought that such friend- 
ship was very pleasant — indeed, the pleasantest thing 
that life could hold for any man. 

But, being a Yankee, he was careful to obliterate 
any trace of emotion before he thanked Weyward 
again, a delicate consideration intensely appreciated 
by the Englishman. 

Eugene Smith,'' said Weyward, ‘‘ is a big, beefy 
baby who pouts when he can't have his own way. Let 
him have it, draw your salary, and — and do things," 
he ended with a gesture that suggested achieve- 
ments indescribable. 

To sustain himself by a weekly contribution to 
Zig-Zag seemed delightful to Oliver. It left him 
time for his theme ; it assured independence of 
action. Ah, but these friends of his were friends 
indeed, — Weyward with his idle, warm heart, Jack 
Payser, generous and devoted, Ivan Lacroix, 
absorbed yet absolutely unselfish, — even the others, 
Tom Fydo, MoraLessly, Ramon Quesada, — yes, the 
tarnished Count who borrowed from him, The Pink 
Rat who squealed at him — all were good fellows — 
they were indeed ! 

He was very happy ; his tired mind, heavy with 
the burden of failure and poverty, grew lighter. 
Care had been busy, starting the faintest tracery of 
fine lines under either cheekbone, and now, when 
he smiled, Weyward saw the lines and frowned. 


i6o 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘ Come,” he said, let things go for to-day. 
We’ll dine together. I’ll ask Ivan, too.” 

‘‘ Indeed we will ! ” cried Oliver, with a jolly, care- 
free laugh that Weyward had never suspected him 
capable of. I had no idea what a cursed strain 
this bread-winning was — but now, when the load is 
off my mind — why, I feel like all sorts of frisking 
lambkins.” 

‘‘ Flourish your heels ; it will do you good,” said 
Weyward, surprised and amused. I had no notion 
that you could do anything so undignified and com- 
forting. I’ll be at the Caf^ Regent at eight. Don’t 
be late.” 

After Weyward had gone Oliver romped with 
Grippe before bathing and dressing, a wise precau- 
tion, for Grippe was acquiring a new winter set of 
furs, and he distributed his old set, hair by hair, 
over everything that came his way. 

Presently, whistling like a school-boy, Oliver be- 
gan to dress. The process of dressing is in itself 
so stupid that even those people not otherwise given 
to reflection, find that time favourable for serious 
thoughts on men and things. 

With eighty dollars a week what could he not do? 
The delightful prospect of freedom from poverty, of 
time to investigate the city that he had chosen for 
his theme, gave him a pleasure that none but those 
released from hopeless, fruitless labour can under- 
stand. 

He whistled gaily, buttoning his collar, — a lighted 
cigarette between his lips, — the first he had dared 
to enjoy for months. 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. l6l 

Poverty already seemed far off ; the wolf's shadow 
faded from his threshold ; hope glimmered in the 
ascendant like a new moon. 

There is a certain delicate intoxication that fol- 
lows unexpected happiness. He was ready for any- 
thing that the evening might bring ; he revelled in 
the idea of facing the human tides that surged 
through the glitter of the gas-lit canons ; he longed 
to plunge into that shadowy world of outlines and 
silhouettes and strange figures ; he longed to be 
one of them, to be of them and with them, to in- 
terpret their laughter and half-caught words, to 
laugh with those who laughed, there where lantern- 
lit portals swarmed with white faces half illuminated. 

Ivan Lacroix came in as Oliver stood before the 
mirror retying his tie. 

ril join you and Weyward at the Regent later," 
he said. “ Fm a bit worried about my model. 
Miss Wy vern ; she hasn't been to the studio for two 
days." 

Oliver looked up sharply, then completed the 
knot in his necktie. 

I'll stop at her boarding house," he said ; I'm 
going out directly. Shall I tell her to come to- 
morrow? " 

If she will," said Ivan ; “ but she won't." 

You don't think she's ill?" asked Oliver, brush- 
ing his coat hurriedly. 

“ No, I don't," replied Ivan. 

Oliver put on his hat, eyes absently wandering 
from Grippe to the door. 


OUTSIDERS. 


162 

‘‘You feed him, Ivan,” he said, and Til stop 
and see Miss Wyvern and find out why she has not 
been to your place.” 

‘‘ I think I know why she hasn't come to the 
studio,” said Ivan, soberly. 

‘‘Why?” asked Oliver, unpleasantly startled. 

“Because she has been staying with Sylvia Tring 
and Mazie, and that means late hours and too much 
champagne. Those three young ones have found 
the Count and Sidney Jaune amusing; I saw the 
whole outfit at the theatre last night. I don’t know 
what to do exactly ; I’m sorry to lose Miss Wy- 
vern ” 

“ The little idiot ! ” said Oliver, surprised at his 
own anger. “ I’ll see what she is about, Ivan, and 
if I have any influence with her, you shall have 
your model again to-morrow. I’ll join you and 
Weyward at the Regent about eight.” 

Now Dulcie Wyvern was certainly free to come 
or stay away as she pleased, and whatever she chose 
to do was none of Oliver’s business, because he had 
never cared to make it so. That was his own affair, 
too. Yet now, when he found that she had drifted 
away without accounting to him, without even a 
word, he felt a curious resentment which was per- 
fectly human and amusingly unjust. 

As he went out into the square, the pleasure he 
might have taken in his new-found freedom from 
care and anxiety was marred. Dulcie marred it. 

It was most unreasonable of him to feel hurt or 
slighted ; he knew it and wondered why. Perhaps 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 1 63 

it was the thought of the Count with his unhealthy 
skin and stale clothes, and his unhealthy mind and 
staler morals — Faugh ! The tarnished squire of 
dames could follow the scent of the make-up rag 
but he must let Dulcie alone ! 

Had he not been a trifle excited he might have 
found his new role somewhat illogical. Since when 
had Dulcie found in him a champion, let alone a 
confidant ? Had the prospect of financial ease per- 
mitted Oliver to accept the championship of a 
young girl he was sorry for? Was it common chiv- 
alry in him that resented the attentions of this 
tainted Count to any innocent woman ? Or was it 
the old humanity in him that had remained un- 
responsive when confidence was offered and sulked 
when confidence sought other sympathies. At one 
time he might have been a great deal to Dulcie ; but 
he would not give her advice where he could not 
give her aid ; and, needing somebody to arbitrate 
for her between facts and emotions, she had drifted 
away from him, perhaps to another outsider less 
busy with life's battle. 

It was dark on the steps of the shabby boarding- 
house, and Oliver, groping for the bell, walked into 
a man who was emerging from the vestibule. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon,” said Oliver. 

“ Aha ! — quite so — I beg yours ! Aha ! ” panted 
the unknown, descending the steps with ponderous 
alacrity. 

There could be no mistake ; that soft, heavy gen- 
tleman, treading the pavement with the innate ma- 


164 


OUTSIDERS. 


jesty of an elephant, was Mn Magnelius Klaw ; and 
what he had been doing in Dulcie Wyvern's vicin- 
ity Oliver desired to know. 

A slatternly child answered the bell ; Oliver 
climbed the unlighted stairs and knocked at Dulcie’s 
curtained door, asking if he might enter. 

Almost immediately he was aware that she was 
not alone ; there were whisperings, a suppressed 
laugh, the sound of an inner door closing ; then she 
admitted him. 

He looked around without speaking; the poor 
faded furniture, the single gas-jet, the musty engrav- 
ings on the wall, were unchanged. He sat down, 
uninvited, wondering at his own increasing dis- 
pleasure. 

She had twisted her heavy hair into a coil, low in 
the neck ; a few strands hid the tips of her small 
ears. For the rest, she was dressed as usual in 
black, which increased the dead whiteness of her 
childish throat and hands. 

Ivan Lacroix wonders why you do not come,” 
he said briefly. Even to him his own voice sounded 
unnecessarily dry. 

“ I wrote him why,” she replied, surprised and 
hurt by his manner. 

When ? ” 

‘‘To-night. He will get my note in the morn- 
ing.” 

She spoke so coldly that he stood up, irritated 
and resentful. 

“ I don’t think it would hurt you to save Ivan 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 1 65 

two days useless waiting. When you cannot pose 
you can at least let him know.’’ 

I am sorry,” she said ; ‘‘ it was thoughtless.” 

His attitude pained and confused her. Had he 
come here to find fault with her for neglecting 
Ivan’s picture? If so he might have done it in a 
kindlier manner ; he had always been at least gentle 
if not particularly sympathetic. But now he 
seemed quite different ; she had never seen him so 
animated, so unpleasant, so like other people. 

‘‘ Am I detaining you ? ” she asked gently. 

Immediately the simple question took on false sig- 
nificance for him. He shot a rapid glance at the 
closed door between her bed-room and the shabby 
parlour. 

‘‘ Mazie is in there,” she said. 

He went to the hall door, determined to keep his 
own ideas to himself. After all, it was not his busi- 
ness to select her companions. 

“Are you going to pose for Lacroix any more ? ” 
he asked. 

Again she resented his tone and remained silent. 
That he had suddenly permitted himself an interest 
in her which assumed the proportions of a champion- 
ship never crossed her mind. She knew he was poor 
and intensely absorbed in his own devices, — not at 
all like other men she knew — and much too poor and 
too occupied to permit the intrusion of her own un- 
important personality into the fabric of his destiny. 
She had believed that he wished her well, that he 
held her in kindly esteem. His gentleness and 


i66 


OUTSIDERS. 


pleasant lack of vanity had been grateful to her. 
At one time, when he boarded at her mother’s, she 
had built a pedestal for him, from which she had 
not yet removed him ; and it alarmed her to believe 
he might descend wilfully. 

‘‘Dulcie,” he said stiffly, ‘‘I once thought I’d 
never bother you with the mawkish imitation of 
friendship embodied in ‘ good advice.* But I’m 
going to. Keep away from the Count and Sidney 
Jaune.” 

‘‘ They always speak fairly of you behind your 
back ! ” flashed out Dulcie. 

Heavens ! her idol was climbing down to the 
ground of his own accord ! 

Can’t you understand it’s for your own good ? ” 
said Oliver, impatient at being misunderstood. 
‘‘You run foolish risks, — you are free, I suppose, — 
but I would like to know how I came to meet Mag- 
nelius Klaw on your door-step just now?” 

“ He calls sometimes,” said Dulcie, a trifler paler ; 
“ he has asked pardon for what he said.” 

“ Look out for him,” said Oliver ; “ our ‘ best people’ 
furnish the best criminals. We unclassed outsiders 
are usually more decent.” 

“ He speaks well of your book,” said Dulcie, des- 
perately. What was he finding fault with ? Why 
did he come to her to speak harshly of others — 
others who were pleasant and kindly and who found 
pleasure in her — others who were no worse, no more 
vain or selfish or importunate than she found all men, 
but who took her to theatres and music-halls and 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 


167 


suppers, and who sent her flowers and silver and 
sometimes rings, which, as yet, she instinctively 
returned, not knowing what hidden significance their 
acceptance might portend nor what gratitude was 
expected in return. 

As for Oliver, he began to realise the role he had 
started to assume. He also realised that Dulcie no 
longer expected such an interest on his part, having 
waited so long in hope of a friendship dreamed of 
only by the very young. 

‘‘ Can't you see," he said, “ I am only trying to be 
a friend where your inexperience needs one ? " 

No, she could not understand ; it was too late. He 
had changed, that was all she saw ; he was hard and 
ungenerous to others where he had been good 
humoured and pleasant ; he still retained his own 
unsympathetic individuality, but he had lost his 
gentleness for her, and now he confused and dis- 
tressed her. 

The misunderstanding was complete ; neither 
cared to prolong an interview which had become 
painful, and Oliver was already descending the stairs 
with a curt good-night on his lips when the door 
below opened and Count Rasta de Camp, followed 
by Sidney Jaune, entered the house. 

The Count smirked at Oliver, passing him with a 
leer, to pay his florid if not torrid respects to Dulcie. 

I am not dressed yet," she said ; go and sit on 
the stairs with Mr. Jaune. Mazie is doing her hair 
and we'll be ready in half an hour." 

So they had come by appointment, The Pink Rat 


OUTSIDERS. 


1 68 

and the Count ! Oliver swallowed hard and 
descended the stairs with the two men, and Dulcie 
shut the door of her bed-room viciously, wonder- 
ing why she felt so miserable. 

Off to view ze town ? inquired the Count lan- 
guidly. 

Oliver nodded, passing him. 

“ Looking for material ? ” suggested Jaune, with a 
sneer at Oliver's evening dress, a costume he affected 
to tolerate in others. 

Permit," said the Count, ‘‘ zere is material for 
stories where zere are women, which is every- 
where ! " 

Jaune added a slanderous epigram that amused 
the Count ; Oliver opened the front door. He 
was half way out when the Count said something 
about either Dulcie or Mazie, he was not certain 
which, but the remark brought him back into the 
dimly-lighted hallway, and Sidney Jaune saw an 
expression in his face that he had once before 
noticed. 

I only want to say," began Oliver, that I don't 
understand why either of you come here. How- 
ever," he added, staring insultingly at the Count, 
‘‘ as long as she tolerates you, you may come." 

The Count was too astonished to reply ; Sidney 
Jaune turned a delicate yellow, and asked Oliver to 
explain himself. 

‘‘ Very happy to. I'm sure," he said, cheerfully ; 

I mean that if either of you fail in deference to 
Miss Wyvern, you'll make a mistake." 


PARASITES AND PROTECTORS. 169 

Waiting a moment for a reply, and receiving none, 
he opened the door again. 

‘‘ You, Monsieur,’' he said to the Count, have a 
singularly filthy tongue, even for a Gaul. Hold it 
in future when a gentleman honours you by his 
presence.” 

The Count stood silent, perspiring with rage. 
After a moment Oliver went out, leaving the door 
behind him open. 


CHAPTER XV„ 


OLIVER FURIOSO. 

Proving that men are not disturbed by things^ but by the view 
that they take of things, 

Self-DISGUST predominated as he recrossed the 
square. Here was a low quarrel with a pair of black- 
guards, Then the absurd aspect appealed to him — 
his warning to the precious pair without the sanc- 
tion of the girl herself — nay, in the face of her re- 
buke for his officiousness. That it could only end 
in ridicule for himself was plain enough ; he was 
ashamed to think of what he had done — of the con- 
struction that was sure to be placed on his interfer- 
ence by the Count and The Pink Rat , — perhaps by 
the girl herself. 

If ever I mix up in that sort of thing again!’* 
he muttered. 

He walked up Broadway to the Regent, breast- 
ing the crowd, bathing in the flaring gaslight, los- 
ing himself in the tide, as though self-immersion 
could rid him of self-contempt. Yesterday he could 
have enjoyed this luxury of rubbing elbows with 
the thousands unknown, knowing he, too, was a part 
of it all, that he had a destination somewhere ahead 


OLIVER FURIOSO. 171 

under the clustered lights. To-night he had spoiled 
happiness before he tasted it. 

But taste it he would, nevertheless ; he found 
subdued pleasure in the shadowy heights of build- 
ings that rose into upper darkness, unlighted, save 
for the brilliant flood that bathed their bases ; he 
stared at the round illuminated clocks that stared 
back at him, mutely exposing dials— for him to study 
if he wished, for the next who passed, for none, for 
all — these street beacons set to signal the passing 
hour, to record dead minutes and seconds dead at 
birth. 

The spine of the dark city, a living nerve-cage, 
through which light flowed and pulsated in a thou- 
sand ganglia, where light was vital as blood to man 
— that was Broadway. 

Letters of fire, sparkling crescents over caf^s and 
theatres, words in letters ten feet long, that flashed 
up crimson and green, then died to an outline of 
cinder only to flare out again in advertisement 
of men and man-wrought merchandise — shop win- 
dows festooned with incandescent globules, windows 
dotted with gas-jets, blank windows bleached in the 
dead blank glare of white arc-lights hanging outside, 
fizzling, changing to faintest pink or violet, black- 
ening the pavement with sooty, shifting shadows — 
light everywhere, overhead where some high win- 
dow-slit glimmered in vast brick cliffs, under foot 
where, through man-hole and grating, ground-glass 
pavement and hidden subway, light struggled up 
from under the earth itself to be absorbed in the 


1/2 


OUTSIDERS. 


local Nirvana — heaven or hell, as man had found it. 
Light in the cable-cars flashing to and fro like 
jewelled shuttles in a loom of iron, light in the stars, 
fading as the city’s glare dimmed even the high 
moon, set in the sky like a tinsel crescent ; light in 
heaven, on earth, in the eyes of the living — light, 
the life blood of the city ! 

The Caf6 Regent, gilded and frescoed like an in- 
verted bonboniere, twinkled under mellow showers of 
light from wall and ceiling. Sconce and candelabra, 
lamp and chandelier heavy with prisms stained with 
rainbow tints, sent wave on wave of radiance across 
the gilt rococo rooms, hot, perfumed, crowded un- 
der the still banners of green palms. 

He found Weyward and Ivan smoking at a table 
near the door ; a page in black took his hat, cloak, 
and gloves ; he seated himself feeling that it was 
good to be in bright places again. 

Pretty women were everywhere in range ; the 
concord of voices, the ring of glasses, the flash of 
silver and gilt were pleasant to him. He raised his 
tiny glass of sherry and sipped, smiling to himself. 

There were many there who knew Weyward; 
Oliver saw men lean forward to catch his eye and 
bow, women who smiled in friendly coquetry, and 
who seemed interested, too, in Ivan’s handsome 
face. He himself thought that Ivan and Weyward 
were certainly a most ornamental accession to the 
unclassed. Women would have added him to the 
group ; his reserve and youth combined to form a 
strong attraction. 


OLIVER FURIOSO. 1 73 

Will Miss Wy vern come to the studio ? ’’ asked 
Ivan. 

I don't know ; she has written you," replied 
Oliver. 

‘‘There's a strange young girl," said Weyward 
lazily, stirring the fern-leaves on the table with his 
cigarette. 

“ Why strange ? " asked Oliver. 

“ I think," replied Weyward, “ that I never knew a 
girl with less chance in life. Her beauty will 
probably swamp her, but the child has more innate 
purity of character than you'll find in some entire 
congregations." 

“ It's instinct," said Oliver ; “ what the world 
calls temptation only scares her." 

“The cry of ‘Wolf! 'soon becomes familiar," 
continued Weyward ; “ she'll hear it once too often 
to be scared." 

“Can't somebody help her? " asked Ivan, setting 
down his sherry. 

“Help her? To what — a mother?" put in Oli- 
ver. 

Ivan said ; “She has the soul of a grande dame 
and the impulses of a soubrette." 

“ Both are born in most women," replied Wey- 
ward ; “ their object in life is to cultivate the one and 
suppress the other." 

“I fancy," began Oliver, “that her convent breed- 
ing has given her that velvety voice of hers, — and her 
composure. Who she is I don't know, but I fancy 
there's good blood somewhere." 


174 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘Her father/* said Weyward, “was Stanley Wy- 
vern, one of the respected doctors of this city ; her 
mother was Canadian. Curious, isn*t it, — about 
Dawson Klaw.** 

“ Why the devil shouldn’t he marry Mrs. Wyvern 
then ? ” asked Oliver. 

“ Few men marry unless — they have to,” replied 
Weyward with composure ; “ what they can hire 
for a penny they won’t buy for a guinea — at least 
among the unclassed.” 

It was a cynical remark, the more unpleasant be- 
cause it did not have the ring of cynicism. 

“ Do you really believe that ? ” asked Oliver. 

“ I really do,” said Weyward, smiling at the 
woodcock on his plate. The woodcock was not 
unusually ridiculous in its attitude of slumber, but 
it seemed to amuse Weyward. 

“That is to say,” continued Oliver, “what men 
can’t hire they marry, — according to you.” 

“Not exactly; what men know they can’t hire 
they are liable to marry. I am not speaking of you 
or Ivan or — myself,” replied Weyward with a weary 
smile ; “ we of course are included among the large 
majority of the socially impossible.” 

“You mean,” said Ivan, “that nobody, for in- 
stance, would marry Miss Wyvern if they found it 
unnecessary.” 

“ Nobody whom she would care to marry is likely 
to offer her marriage,” said Weyward. “That is 
the danger for her ; she could only care for some 
man like — Oliver, for example.” 


OLIVER FURIOSO. 


175 


‘‘ Then she’ll be safe enough,” said Oliver dryly. 

Coffee was served before the silence was again 
broken ; then Ivan said ; I’m sorry to lose her ; I 
shall have the figure to repaint.” 

She may come back,” said Oliver, feeling 
uneasy at the thought of losing touch in the world 
with Dulcie. 

The scent of violets lay heavy in the heated air ; 
the wine he drank cooled him a little and he pushed 
the hot coffee away and motioned the waiter to re- 
fill his glass. 

A moment later Weyward said lazily; ‘‘There’s 
Dulcie Wyvern now.” 

“Not here?” said Oliver, swinging around in his 
chair. 

She was entering the room, opera cloak thrown 
back, a great bunch of violets in her white gloved 
hand. 

Behind her came Mazie and The Pink Rat ; the 
Count brought up the rear, quite as symmetrical 
in his evening dress as any Frenchman can be. 

“The nation should revert to the loin-cloth,” 
observed Weyward. 

Dulcie saw Weyward and coloured, but her recog- 
nition of Ivan was a guilty one and that young man 
laughed outright. She smiled too, but the smile 
faded when she met Oliver’s eyes, and, with the 
faintest acknowledgment of a bow, she seated her- 
self. 

Ivan turned to Oliver, shrugging his shoulders ; 
“You see ; she will not pose again.” 


1/6 


OUTSIDERS. 


Weyward’s cool voice broke in : “ If she’s going 
to the bow-wows with that soiled gentleman in vel- 
vet cuffs, we have wasted our sympathy.” 

Oliver emptied his goblet in silence. The slight- 
est tinge of intoxication mounted to the muscles of 
his cheeks, bringing a stain of colour. 

Passing their table a pretty actress stopped with 
her escort to offer Weyward a slim hand. They 
stood chatting and laughing for a moment ; Ivan 
and Oliver were presented, others joined the group 
or passed with nods of smiling recognition. Wey- 
ward was very popular ; all outsiders knew him. 

Leaving the brilliant room Oliver hesitated on 
the threshold and looked straight across at Dulcie. 
She bent her head, glanced up once more with 
troubled eyes, then turned impatiently to the 
Count. 

At the theatre that night Oliver was silent but 
attentive. 

Romayne’s comedians were acting an old English 
comedy with all the beauty of their usual ensemble, 
and Ida Mohun was the very incarnation of delicate 
deviltry. The play, seen through the faintest haze 
of intoxication, was amusing to Ivan and Wey- 
ward. Oliver followed it listlessly ; his interest 
waned with the falling curtain. 

There’s another act,” said Ivan, who hated to 
miss anything artistic. So they stayed in the box 
until the end came. 

Write a play, Oliver,” suggested Weyward; 
“ everybody is doing it now.” 


OLIVER FURIOSO. 177 

Our janitor wrote one/' said Ivan encourag- 
ingly. 

Oliver laughed and felt better for laughing. 
Jack Payser hailed them from the crowd around the 
theatre entrance, offering his club as an oasis in 
case they needed such an article, but Oliver was 
inclined to wander and Ivan did not care to sit 
in a stuffy room and ring for waiters. As for 
Weyward, he was beginning to feel the after-glow 
that wine brings to some, when the first cloudiness 
of the mind has subsided. 

Come on. Jack," said he to Payser; ^^you 
know no end of Flossies and Dotties and Tot- 
ties from the purlieus of stage doors. Let's give a 
supper to some entire chorus ! " But Jack refused 
modestly, and presently disappeared in a cab 
headed for John Daly's hospitable though almost 
inaccessible temple of Hermes. 

‘‘ Come on," said Ivan ; let's prowl and see 
things. I'm fond of the city by night." 

Weyward surveyed the city from the curbstone, 
observing that although New York architecture was 
the highest development of the pastry-cook's art, 
he required something more stimulating to set him 
walking the streets for pleasure. 

'^You, Ivan," he said, ‘‘ want to mouse about 
with your eye out for possible models. It's waste 
time; I can take you to a girl who would be just 
what you want — only I doubt if she’ll pose. How- 
ever, she's worth seeing. Come on." 

‘‘What girl? " inquired Ivan, interested. 


178 


OUTSIDERS. 


Come and see,” replied Weyward, signalling a 
hansom. 

The address he gave the driver was far from 
Long Acre, and Ivan apparently recognised the 
vicinity, for he said : ‘‘ There are handsome 

women at The Arabesque, but I should scarcely 
expect to find my types there.” 

“ If there exists a type you won’t find there. I’d 
like to see it,” said Weyward. “ Are you coming, 
Oliver ? No ? Good-night, then ! ” 

Oliver nodded ; the vehicle wheeled, swung 
round a demitour to the gutter ; Weyward sprang 
in after Ivan had preceded him, and the horse 
moved out into the stony street striking sparks 
from the pavement. 

Oliver boarded a south-bound car. 

There were few people in the car : he noticed 
nobody. Moody, irritable, for the wine had 
depressed him, he stared at the passing lights, see- 
ing nothing. Three times the car swung around 
steel curves; he had reached Washington Place 
before he knew it. 

Why he signalled the conductor and got out 
there instead of waiting until the car reached 
Fourth Street, he did not himself know until he 
crossed the dark square. Then he followed the 
north side of the square instead of the south. 

He was curiously prepared to see a single cab 
standing in front of Dulcie’s house. There was a 
young girl on the sidewalk beside it ; a man beside 
her. 


OLIVER FURIOSO. 


179 


Oliver passed ; neither saw him. He heard 
Magnelius Klaw's voice ; he saw the heavy fat hand 
fall on Dulcie's arm. 

He stopped and faced them, and at the same 
moment the Count emerged from the house, carry- 
ing a satchel. 

The lamplight illuminated Dulcie’s face. It 
was over-flushed and her eyes seemed heavy and 
dazed. 

When Oliver stepped forward to Dulcie’s side, 
Magnelius Klaw involuntarily stepped back with an 
agility unexpected in a gentleman of such weight. 

Dulcie,'' said Oliver. 

She laid her hand on his coat with an involuntary 
sob like one who wakes at midnight, fearing a 
dream. 

The Count came down the steps two at a time, 
and Oliver took him and fairly hurled him at the 
cab, which promptly started and, running over him 
with rubber tires, knocked the last atom of breath 
out of his body. 

Far down the street the cabman was sawing at 
the reins, cursing furiously ; far up the street Mr. 
Magnelius Klaw was skipping away in ponderous 
flight. He was an elderly man who abhorred 
violence. Besides, he had a family. Notoriety has 
no business with married men. 


CHAPTER XVL 


DAWN. 

Wherein is shown that he who would live without folly 
is not as wise as he thinks. 

Dawn marbled the sky above the tree tops in 
Washington Square, but the room was yet in twi- 
light and the gas still flickered over the bed where 
Dulcie lay. 

She was not asleep ; her cheeks were hot and 
flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright. There was the 
faintest odour of wine in the room. The snowy 
pallour of her throat and hands contrasted strangely 
with her burning, scarlet mouth. 

Oliver sat by the window, frowning out at the 
eastern sky already inlaid with pink and pearl and 
faintest primrose where a single tiny cloud of 
amethyst, fringed with fire, foreshadowed the hid- 
den sun. 

Meeting her eyes again in the room’s waning twi- 
light he watched her silently, and the lines in his 
face deepened. Care was with him again — his old 
companion. Black Care, the squire alike of horsemen 
and those who ride the unshod mare to the last 
ditch of life. 


DAWN. 


I8l 


That fate should add another burden to the 
pack he staggered under neither surprised nor em- 
bittered him, now that he recognised the burden 
was his. 

It was a question, merely, whether or not he might 
come to his knees when he assumed it. 

Heretofore he had proceeded on the conviction 
that Dulcie and her future concerned anybody but 
himself. Unsought, she and her future had come 
to him, returning persistently when he considered 
himself the least responsible. 

He was not a fatalist, neither was he. a narrow 
man. When the impossibility of his assuming con- 
trol of Dulcie became a possibility, a thousand little 
material and practical reasons arose to warn him 
that he should not do so. With the fait accompli 
these had vanished as though they had never exist- 
ed. So here she was, in his room, lying there on 
his bed, quite alone in the world save for the sober- 
eyed vagabond in evening dress, brooding by the 
grey window, — save for the little dog, curled upon 
the rug at the bedside, nose on flank, brown eyes 
always watching. 

His master turned his grave face to the win- 
dow. Morning had blossomed like a fresh rose in 
the east. The sun was still hidden ; the little 
purple cloud had dissolved to a drop of liquid flame. 
One by one long, living tentacles of light shot up, 
feeling for the last shadows in the zenith. In the 
pulsating silence of dawn a sparrow began to chirp 
sweetly. 


OUTSIDERS. 


182 

When he thought that he had solved another 
problem in facts and emotions, he left the chair by 
the window and went to the bedside. The little dog 
made room for him. 

‘‘ Dulcie,'* he said, ‘‘ let’s start again — together. 
We’ve been groping about a bit but we always meet 
in some new circle.” 

He hesitated to read her eyes. They were fathom- 
less yet clear as a child’s now. 

‘‘ I have no one,” he said ; ‘‘ I shall be very glad 
of the responsibility. We are a lonely lot — we 
outsiders. If anybody would only classify us — if 
we could only classify ourselves and seek out our 
kin and kind ? — but we’re a lonely lot, even among 
the unclassed.” 

The glowing east sent a rosy glimmer into the 
room. On the wall above the bed a pale tracery 
spread its pattern of sunbeams. 

He went on : It is only a matter of time when 
things will begin to move for me. When one begins 
with nothing it goes hard for a while ; that’s the 
reason I have kept away from people and from — 
you. A man, unfortunately, must begin by feeding 
himself if he expects to live to feed others.” 

The ghastly gaslight flickered up in a draught of 
fresh air ; he turned it out. For a while he watched 
the network of sunshine dancing on the wall ; a single 
spot of light fell on her hair. Then he spoke 
again : 

** I did not understand that you needed a friend — 
or that I needed one — in you. It seemed a cruel 


DAWN. 


183 


parody on friendship for me, a passerby, to stop you 
and preach that virtue is its own reward. I have 
suffered from that kind of hypocrisy too much to 
inflict it. I had nothing to offer when I first knew 
you ; later I had nothing but a little money to offer. 
I offer my friendship now, Dulcie.'' 

She laid one feverish hand on his. 

For little customs of little men I think I care 
little,’' he said. ‘‘ I am not a substitute for kith 
and kin ; there is none. I only am here whenever 
you want me.” 

The netted pattern on the wall had spread over 
her like a veil of light. She closed her eyes ; her 
fingers closed, holding his. 

As far as I can see, the world has been well swept 
for us, Dulcie,” he said. 

That brought a train of thought, and, thinking, 
he spoke aloud : 

“ My father was in the Confederate army — we 
were Virginians. He entered the Khedive’s service 
after the surrender ; my mother died when I was 
born — in Cairo. I was a nuisance, I fancy ; my 
father’s sister took me to New York, where I lived 
until I was ten. Then she died, and I was sent 
with a servant to Cairo, then shipped to Paris. I 
went to the Lyc^e Louis le Grand ; after to the 
Sorbonne, then to Cairo. My father. Colonel Lock, 
died quite insolvent. I had enough to come to 
America and I came — home.” 

Home? The word would have been a mockery 
in the mouth of any but an Anglo-Saxon. But it is 


OUTSIDERS. 


184 

that word that has made the great Anglo-Saxon 
compact inevitable, belting the globe with homes — 
homes to fight for as long as the English race shall 
endure on earth. 

“ There is,’' said Oliver, “ no reason to be 
frightened at anything in the world ; my father told 
me that, once when I telegraphed him, fearing he 
had been with Hicks Pasha when Arabi broke loose 
along the coast.” 

Dulcie opened her grey eyes and looked up into 
his face. 

‘‘Nothing can really harm the soul, either,” he 
said gravely, — “ not even ourselves. That was never 
told me.” 

“ I believe it, ” said Dulcie, peacefully. 

The difference between facts and emotions was 
a constant source of speculation to the little dog. 
Grippe. The fact was that he had been forbidden 
to jump upon the bed ; his emotions urged him to 
do it. So, with something between a howl of dis- 
may at his own temerity and a yelp of affection for 
the company present he landed on Dulcie and im- 
mediately rolled over, urging forgiveness with one 
paw. 

Oliver prepared to discipline Grippe, but Dulcie, 
at first frightened into a sitting posture, took the 
small dog into her arms and caressed him. He 
belonged to Oliver ; she held him so close that he 
wriggled, unable to endure the joy within him. 

“ There is a room,” said Oliver, “ next to mine. 
The lock is in order ; it is yours. As for your pos- 


DAWN. 


185 


sessions, I *11 have them here by noon. It*s the 
safest solution for the moment ; however, I don’t be- 
lieve we will find it pleasant for long, and I’ll know 
the proper course to take in a few days. Meanwhile, 
my room is yours.” 

She thanked him quite simply. The fever of the 
wine had left her tired but composed. She watched 
him moving about the room to find his morning 
clothes ; he was light-hearted enough to hum a tune 
under his breath. 

That reminds me,” he said, turning sharply ; 
“You have a first-rate voice.” 

She coloured and laughed a little. 

“ Study is what you care for — isn’t it? ” 

“ Yes, ” she said faintly. 

He found his garments at last and started for the, 
door, saying that he would return by noon and that 
she must sleep until then. As he passed the bed she 
held out her hand. 

“ Before I sleep,” she said, “ may I tell you about 
last night ? I shall not sleep if I do not.” 

He sat down on the bed’s edge again, and she 
told him all : 

“ I fancied you cared nothing — I could not find 
anybody to tell me things. They came — we saw 
you at the Regent. After that we went to the play ; 
Mr. Klaw was there. Then Mazie went home and 
the others took me to supper — I don’t know where 
— and the Frenchman told me I must go somewhere 
and do something — but it was very confused and I 
had a great deal of champagne — I wanted it — think- 


OUTSIDERS. 


1 86 

ing of your face as you left the Regent. After that 
they drove me back to the house — and then they 
wanted me to get into the cab again. I knew I must 
not — I scarcely heard what they said. Then — you 
came. That is all — truly it is — Oliver.*' 


CHAPTER XVII. 


OLIVER ERRANT. 

In which it is pointed out that no man is clever enough to 
know how stupid he can be. 

Grippe finished his bowl of bread and milk on 
the hearth, licked his ragged whiskers, yawned 
amiably, and walked over to the chair by the win- 
dow. From this chair he could see other dogs in 
the square below ; when he tired of observing them 
he could bristle at passing sparrows. When this 
pleasure cloyed, there was Dulcie to watch over, 
and he could pretend that she was in mysterious 
peril, making it necessary for him to sleep with 
one eye open, and growl at intervals when people 
creaked up and down stairs outside the landing. 

Truly the duties and responsibilities of small 
dogs are complex and onerous ; twenty-four hours 
are none too long for their proper discharge. 

Dulcie dreamed. 

The lattice work of sunbeams paled and flickered 
on the wall ; the flies darted in and out of the sun, 
resting to rub their fore-legs or polish their wings 
with crossed hind feet, — proceedings silently re- 
sented by the little dog. 


OUTSIDERS. 


Sparrows, too, were plenty and impudently famil- 
iar, and it needed much self effacement to swallow 
a bark of defiance and change it into a gurgle. 

Toward noon Oliver left the office of Zig-Zag 
with eighty dollars in his pocket and a copy of the 
paper in his hand. It was a sheet devoted to 
bright colours, dull epigrams, and women’s ankles, — 
an exotic importation modelled on Continental 
journals, lacking their wit, draughtsmanship, taste, 
and depravity. Its success was assured. 

To make it witty Eugene Smith was ready to 
pay ; accident had thrown ‘‘ The Winged Boy ” 
into his large, smooth hands ; he read it in a cable- 
car, and forgot the author’s name when he mis- 
laid the book. Therefore, when Weyward looked 
him up one day on Oliver’s behalf, the matter was 
easily arranged. 

‘‘ Spice your copy, Mr. Lock,” said Eugene 
Smith, accompanying Oliver to the elevator ; I 
don’t want this knock-about, gag-me-and-I-gag-you 
business. Let us have three columns that makes 
your breath whistle through your teeth. The pub- 
lic are dead sore on toughs and goats and niggers 
and sheenies.” 

“ I have,” laughed Oliver, “ plenty to say that 
won’t interest the East Side.” 

‘‘That’s right,” said Mr. Smith, his big, baby face 
creased into a smile. “Tights are out of date; 
hoist the petticoat but keep it between the ankle 
and the knee ! ” 

Oliver stopped short. 


OLIVER ERRANT. 1 89 

“ About ankles/’ he said dryly, I find shoes and 
stockings — nothing more, Mr. Smith.” 

In Mr. Smith’s total journalistic experience he 
had never before been snubbed. The sensation was 
so novel that he almost liked it. He pouted and 
blinked at Oliver through his glasses, considering 
this young stranger whose independence was a 
curiosity in the profession. 

“ I suppose you’ll give us what we want?” he 
said bluntly. 

‘‘ Certainly, if you want what I give you,” re- 
plied Oliver. 

Smith laughed ; Oliver would make people read 
anyway. 

‘'Young man,” he said, “can’t you do as the 
Romans do in this town without loss of self 
respect ? ” 

“ I’ll do what they do — if they’ll let me tell them 
what to do,” said Oliver guardedly. 

So Eugene Smith retired to his sanctum to charge 
a skirt-dancer a hundred dollars for publishing her 
portrait in Zig-Zag^ and Oliver walked back to 
Washington Square, doubtful of the permanency 
of his present position. 

In that case what would become of Dulcie? 

Sunshine and daylight are filters for gas-light 
philosophy ; he began to realise what he had under- 
taken as he entered the square where a young girl, 
wholly dependent on him, lay asleep under his own 
roof. 

Now some men commit folly from choice ; fate 


OUTSIDERS. 


190 

compels many to folly ; the remainder are predes- 
tined to be fools, anyhow, which should partly con- 
sole all. 

But Oliver, crossing the square and looking up at 
the windows of his room, found no consolation in 
predestination or the doctrine of original imbecil- 
ity. 

The little dog saw him from the window, and 
began to patter and dance and whistle sentimen- 
tally until Dulcie stirred in her slumbers and awoke 
to find Oliver standing by her bed and Grippe try- 
ing to stand on his own head. 

When a man is troubled, his instinct is to say so. 
This Jnherent honesty of the sex may be its own 
reward ; usually it is a bore to everybody except 
women. 

Dulcie saw trouble in his eye and smiled at the 
prospect of consolation. Her smile was delightful 
and defeated its own ends ; for Oliver forgot his 
misgivings when he took her unresisting hand in 
both of his. 

“ Everything is all right,’’ he said with cheerful 
perversity. Your trunk and boxes are in the next 
room, — see, here is the key, Dulcie. For the 
present we shall breakfast and dine together, here ; 
I have given orders at Spinkle’s. And now you 
can help Ivan with his picture and retire to your 
fortress when you care to and nobody will be the 
wiser except the janitor, whose fangs I drew with a 
tip and whom I can guarantee to be as harmless as 
he is venal.” 


OLIVER ERRANT. I9I 

** It can not last, can it, Oliver ? she said with 
a sigh of content. 

^‘You mean we can’t stay here without scandal? 
I fancy not. However, there’s time.” 

He certainly needed time to adjust himself to 
the new conditions. Dulcie’s .twenty dollars a 
week from her sitting for Ivan would help her ; 
his own eighty dollars every Saturday made sailing 
easy — if the eighty dollars continued to come in. 
That was the danger ; Eugene Smith was the 
shiftiest and most uncertain of editors and pro- 
moters. 

While Dulcie was arranging her disordered hair 
and gown preparatory to seeking her own room for 
ablutions and fresh garments, Oliver strolled into 
Ivan’s studio. 

He found that young man sitting on top of a 
high revolving chair, smoking and laughing and 
whirling around idly, while, on the model stand, a 
delicately draped figure sat, sandaled toes drawn 
up under her robe, bare arms crossed over her 
knees. 

After a moment’s silence, during which Oliver 
decided that an apology for intrusion was bad 
taste, Ivan, handsome face flushed, presented him 
to his new model. 

She was winsome and grave, with all the serious- 
ness of inexperience in a false position. However, 
Oliver’s indifference and Ivan’s ready ease dissipated 
restraint. • 

‘‘ I see you have painted out your figure and are 


192 


OUTSIDERS. 


already on a new ebauche ? ’’ said Oliver, dismayed 
at the prospect of Dulcie being replaced. 

“And I am very contented with my model,*' 
said Ivan, laughing. “ Would you mind standing a 
moment, Tessie?" 

She stood up, unconsciously taking the pose ; the 
straight folds fell around her, the sandals glittered. 

Oliver said nothing, for Ivan, standing on his 
chair before the big suspended canvas, had already 
begun to work. The stillness in the studio seemed 
to hypnotise Tessie. The smile faded, the curve of 
her lips relaxed into a touching solemnity, but her 
brown eyes never left Ivan. 

Leaving the studio quietly, Oliver met Jack 
Payser on the landing, who said : “ Oh, my innocent 
friend, have you seen Ivan's new model? She is a 
corker ! " 

“ I've seen her," said Oliver smiling. 

“ I know her," continued Jack ; “ she was one of 
Armand's hat models until last week. I didn't 
know she was posing. Tessie Delmour is a corker 
and no mistake ! " 

Oliver said nothing and Jack rattled on : 

“ The Count had a fight last night ; somebody 
gave him a most terrific thrashing and he’s in bed 
squalling with pain and rage and keeping the whole 
second floor in a dreadful state. Did you ever 
hear a Frenchman weep ? Come down— don't miss 
it, I beg of you. That little Tombs attorney is 
with him — what's his name — oh. Dyke Van Shuy- 
ster." 


OLIVER ERRANT. 


193 


Is he seriously injured ? asked Oliver. 

No ; both peepers closed, brisket damaged, 
pasterns scratched and nigh foot sprained above 
the hock. He says he means to murder people, 
not specifying. By the way, where did you go 
after the theatre? '' 

Home,’' said Oliver, considering it the proper 
reply at the time. He suddenly decided not to 
tell Payser or anybody else that Dulcie was in the 
Monastery. Before they found out he hoped he 
might be ready to place her in more suitable 
quarters. But the velocity of scandal rivals the 
speed popularly credited to prayer, and when Jack 
Payser clattered on down stairs he met Tke Pink 
Rat with his mouth full of venom, coming up to 
. visit Monsieur the Count. 

Your friend, young Lock, seems to have struck 
it rich,” said the Rat as Payser returned his nod. 

How do you mean ?” asked Jack, stopping. 

‘‘ He’s struck pay dirt somewhere,” said the Rat 
spitefully : I suppose he’ll keep a caniche next.” 

^‘What’s he keeping now? ” demanded Jack, sus- 
picious of Mr. Jaune. 

Jaune said something in French, maliciously, 
adding : “ A caniche comes next, you know.” 

''You’re losing your intellect,” said Jack, con- 
temptuously; "only Jews keep such articles in 
New York.” 

" Such articles sometimes keep Christians, though,” 
sneered Jaune, starting on. He was too slow ; little 
Mr. Payser promptly struck him on his right eye 


OUTSIDERS. 


1 04 

with a sound like the crack of a lash ; and they 
clinched and rolled down two flights of stairs to the 
scandal of Ramon Quesada, Vice Consul for Yuca- 
tan. 

Jaune, being nervous, fairly screamed with the 
pain in his eye, while little Jack Payser regarded 
him in silence, breathing hard. 

The Vice Consul for Yucatan counselled modera- 
tion for the present and pistols for the next morn- 
ing, and Jack went out of the house laughing, 
perhaps a trifle ashamed, but carrying his honours 
with native jauntiness and affability. 

‘‘ How that Pink Rat did squeal,’' he murmured ; 
‘‘ I wonder whether Oliver has been as foolish as 
the rest of us ? " 

Down town Jack Payser met Weyward at lunch- 
eon and told him what he had done to The Pink Rat, 

‘‘Good boy," said Weyward, “the Rat deserves 
it. But Oliver may have his affairs like the rest of 
us. He’s not a god, you know." 

“ In justification of myself I may observe that 
the gods themselves had a hot time on Olympus, 
didn’t they?" asked Jack. “By the way, don’t 
you believe a man may make pies out of pitch — 
and not be defiled ? I do." 

“You won’t when you’re older," said Weyward 
encouragingly, a remark ignored by Mr. Payser in 
the depths of a mug of ale. 

However, that night when the cares and duties of 
a real-estate broker permitted Mr. Payser to return 
to the more congenial relaxations of the Monas- 


OLIVER ERRANT. 


195 


tery, little Theodore Veeder, the artist who painted 
in the air with his thumb, informed a table full of 
men at Spinkle’s that Oliver Lock had acquired an 
unlimited interest in Dulcie Wyvern and that the 
tender episode recalled a similar situation in which 
he, Veeder, had figured in the Latin Quarter. 

‘‘ Throw a plate at the little monster ! exclaimed 
Jack in horror; “ weTe a decent crowd here!'’ 
And that quashed further discussion of Oliver Lock 
and his affairs for the moment. 

But Jack was interested; he withdrew from the 
company at an early hour and paid a visit to Oliver. 
And Mr. Payser nearly fainted when, on entering 
the room, he beheld Oliver and Dulcie calmly dis- 
cussing corned beef and salad. 

He had seen many households such as he supposed 
this to be, but he was not yet satisfied with his 
conclusions ; and so, fortunately for himself as well 
as for the others, he refrained from taking the tradi- 
tional attitude of jaunty and mysterious benevolence, 
— that horrible parody on an old friend's privileged 
wit at the expense of married bliss. 

Oliver cared to make no explanations in Dulcie's 
presence ; later he decided to make none at all, not 
caring to humble either her or himself by justifi- 
cation, an attitude that presupposes the existence or 
admits the possibility of evil. 

Puzzled and polite. Jack Payser took his leave 
without being a whit the wiser. He met Ivan in 
the hallway, carrying a pitcher of shandy-gaff to his 
studio. 


196 OUTSIDER^. 

My heaven, but you must have a thirst ! he 
observed, sniffing fondly at the huge loving cup. 

I have,'* said Ivan calmly; what's the matter 
with your eye ? " 

Jaunedid it. Am I to have any of that shandy- 
gaff?" 

** It's enough for three," said Ivan ; ‘‘ come on." 

“ Three ? " said Payser, much pleased. 

Yes, three," said a voice from the studio door, 
where Tessie Delmour stood, bare arms covered 
with blue clay; ‘‘Come into the studio. Jack 
Payser, and see Ivan give me my first lesson in 
modelling ! " 

Ivan turned sharply and said under his breath ; 
“ Where did you know her. Jack ? " 

“In Armand's," replied Jack serenely ; “Sylvia 
Tring of the Athenian bought her hats there, 
didn't she, Tessie ? " 

“ Fm afraid to say who paid for them, too," 
replied Tessie, at which Mr. Payser turned an 
exquisite pink colour and pretended he didn't hear. 

Late that night when Jack Payser had sought his 
modest little pillow and lay there coquetting with 
the drowsy goddess, it occurred to him that the 
Monastery, if not already a convent, was distinctly 
co-educational and progressive in its tendencies. 

“ It won't do for an anchorite like me," he said 
plaintively, as a burst of laughter echoed along the 
hallway outside his door. Presently somebody 
knocked and called through the key-hole ; “ Wake 
up. Jack! Mazie and Sylvia and some of those 


OLIVER ERRANT. I97 

Athenian girls are going to have supper in TrivoFs 
studio ! 

Jack arose and patiently lighted the gas. 

“ This cloister is no place for a recluse like me/' 
he muttered. 

But he dressed again and went out, extinguish- 
ing his gas as though he might remain absent for 
some time. 

“ What puzzles me," he grumbled, stumbling up 
the dark stairs, is this Oliver Errant and his Dul- 


cinea. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


weyward’s letter. 

Containing a most singular perversio?i of facts and fancies, 

Weyward had been in the country, somewhere, 
nearly three weeks before Oliver received a singu- 
lar and characteristic letter from him dated Sioux 
City, October 21 : 

My Dear Fellow, 

Apropos of your new book 
which you write me Mawly has asked for — don’t 
let it go ! October brings a quiver of reviving 
activity through the literary world ; your chance 
will come ; the magazines prepare holiday pabulum 
for the public, the newspapers grow cheaper, 
meaner, noisier and gaudier, the publishers begin 
to advertise themselves at the expense of their 
authors. Puff, puff, quack, quack, what d’ye lack ! 
is the song, swelling to a slogan ; the big drum 
booms ; the spirit of Barnum rides the October 
wind. For the literary world is a nasty little gin- 
ger-bread fair, hung with painted scenery through 
which author-marionettes dangle and posture and 
jerk their wooden limbs. It never was anything 
else, it never will be, this shop full of strutting toys, 
revolving, bowing, smirking, while publisher after 
publisher takes his turn at the strings and buys or 
prices the newest and stickiest. 

There exist but two noble arts, Oliver, sculpture 


weyward’s letter. 


199 


and design, though there are noble artists, — like 
yourself, — in the lesser art of letters. The artist is 
solitary, the artisan gregarious ; the artist lives 
outside of his so-called world of art, the artisan 
huddles within its limits, lives in it, reeks of it, 
babbles of his world and his fellow artists. There 
is nothing sillier or more ignoble than the so-called 
literary world and its fauna, nothing more insincere, 
nothing more artificial. It is a rabbit-warren, 
promiscuous and full of underground squeaks and 
intrigues, a catacomb for the unclassified, where 
fatuous uncle-foozles wag their ears with the 
solemnity of Kings in Bedlam, and young uniden- 
tified literati dance mad contra-dances with their 
own shadows. 

No artist with a rag of respect for himself or for 
his ambition can find aid or inspiration by living in 
any technical or special '' world ; no man with a 
healthy sense of the absurd can settle among its 
denizens, blinking owl-like out at the wholesome 
world where inspiration alone has its source. 
Oliver, keep out of the literary world, but investi- 
gate it through a microscope. 

The atmosphere of the sweat-shops of art is not 
a tonic ; little fry vitiate it, big fry exhaust it. 
Rubbing elbows with a tailor may inspire another 
tailor; the artist is never inspired by men, but by 
their work, and the work goes out into the fresh, 
breezy, everyday world — back to the source of its 
inspiration. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, rain to 
the sea, and good to the good from whence it came ! 

A day in the literary world ” would be sufficient 
to show you what a life-time there could be. 

A day in the literary world is a warning and a 
moral to the unfledged, oh, Oliver, my son ! 

Nobody but the healthy worker can know how 
good it is to escape the dull makers of talk who 


200 


OUTSIDERS. 


reign among the consecrated in their world,” 
dandling straws for sceptres — no one but he who 
has met the inhabitants of that world in the flesh — 
the lank, sloppy, English brother with his futile 
essays and foolish whiskers, smelling and sniffing 
the footsteps of the great ; the feeble professor of 
literature and flaccid phrase, the publisher’s pan- 
ders, paid for, soul and body, and wearing the wolf- 
skin of the critic over the bleating body of a sheep. 
The world of letters ? A retreat for the unclassed, 
Oliver, — a tainted serum where the cultured her- 
maphrodite can reproduce himself like that singular 
segmented individual so intimately and painfully 
allied with many vertebrates. Women huddle into 
the literary world, women with three names, who 
write, write, write ! The periodicals of the country 
are choked with undigested women wearing three 
names, the book-stalls groan with their harvests, 
the literary world reeks of their tea, and its siroccos 
hiss through their docked hair. 

More weak, more contemptible than that other 
solemn Bedlam, the theatrical world,” the squawk- 
ing literary world” wobbles on down the vistas of 
imbecility, while the eternal questions are eternally 
interpreted and solved by the simpler children of a 
simpler world whose creed is silence and sincerity. 
Hold aloof, oh, my son ! 

And when your work is done, and the last phrase 
rewritten — shrink from the manuscript and shun it, 
letting it depart in peace. 

The gentle art of letters ceases with the click of 
the type-writer; the horrified muse picks up her 
skirt and runs, yielding her frontier to a grotesque 
Grimaldo who enters beating a gong, hollowed 
hand to cheek, shouting his crowd around him. 
Attend ! good people, for the Greatest Show on 
Earth is free to all — the launching of a modern 


WEYWARD’S LETTER. 


201 


book! — by Tom, by Dick, by Harry, — all great! 
geniuses all, my honest oafs, — but the greatest of 
all is their Publisher 111 

The season is beginning; your time is coming 
with it. People will read your books, you will be 
sought after, more and more ; literary societies will 
invite you, maidens in mousseline de soie will prattle 
praise to you, — the whole ginger-bread fair will 
open to you, free of charge. Enter, my friend, and 
examine the show, but don’t hire a tent and set up 
housekeeping with those on exhibition in the side- 
shows. 

There are few men competent to criticise who 
give their time to that lower form of letters. Be 
thankful if they honour you by their notice. 

As for the critics, labelled and odoriferous of their 
profession, remember they would not write criti- 
cisms if they could write books. 

Stupidity is more than a visitation of God, it is a 
science. Mediocrity is a bacillus whose culture be- 
gins and ends in over-culture. Intellectual ladies 
of both sexes are its prey, and the ravage of the 
microbe renders them unfit for anything except the 
chair of belles-lettres in some university or the career 
of a professional critic. 

Do not look for justice : you will never get it ; 
you may get more than justice and less than jus- 
tice but you will not receive justice. 

Write like the devil ! Remember a shoe-maker 
must stick to his last — but don’t you do it ! Amuse 
yourself as you wish to, until you are ready to write 
again. 

To show, to give to the world, to place before 
men, is the impulse of youth that has wrought sin- 
cerely. 

The harvest is disillusion, my friend, the reward 
for sincerity is the plaudits or sneers of the medi- 


202 


OUTSIDERS, 


ocre, the bleating of the fat-witted, the vacant stare 
of the self-satisfied, the squeal of the parasite and 
sycophant. 

He that careth not to please men nor feareth 
to displease them shall enjoy much peace/' 

So age, the saddest blessing, brings indifference, 
our saddest mercy. 

But we must become very, very old before we 

understand or believe it 

Must we not, Oliver, my friend ? 

All this has been said before — all this has been 
repeated by better men than I. 

But Truth was created for repetition, which was 
not the object when Providence designed. 

Your friend. 

We Y WARD. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE LAW. 

In which Oliver observes the irregularities of the law hut 
little of its majesty. 

As Oliver entered his room, Dulcie stood at the 
door taking leave of Ivan’s brown-eyed model, 
Tessie Delmour. The latter had been crying ; she 
nodded to Oliver without looking at him and 
hurried back across the hallway to Ivan’s studio. 

‘‘I asked you not to visit Tessie,” said Oliver, 
following Dulcie into the room, and discouraging 
Grippe’s assault of welcome. 

‘‘ I did not visit her, Oliver.” 

‘‘ It’s the same ; she comes here,” he said irrita- 
bly. 

She is very unhappy ; I cannot refuse her.” 

Where did you know her ? ” he asked after a 
moment’s indecision. 

“ At Armand’s ; I took her place, and she felt 
that it was unfair. Oh, that miserable Milliner !• — 
I — I can’t tell you all he did, Oliver, — only that he 
offered me Tessie’s place — and — I went home — with- 
out my hat. After that the Jewess forewoman kept 
up her cruel treatment and ” 

And — what ? ” 


204 


OUTSIDERS. 


'' Tessie was insane^I think,” she answered inno- 
cently. 

‘‘ Did she tell you what she did ? ” he insisted 
sharply. 

“Yes; oh, Oliver, how could she? It was her 
mind that was sick — she was not a bad girl — she 
didn’t know. Oliver, don’t be cruel to her.” 

“ Why couldn’t Ivan let her alone?” he said mo- 
rosely. “ He’s as weak as the rest of them — those 
ascetic apostles of Lippo,” he muttered to himself ; 
“ they’re an angelic band, the whole crowd of them.” 

“Are you angry at Tessie ? ” she asked, prepared 
to believe that whatever he thought must be just. 

“I? No!” he replied, with a bitter laugh she 
could not understand. 

He recalled one evening in June — he had been in 
the city only a week — when he stepped into a great 
church to hear an exhorter deliver verbal kicks at a 
scared and anxious congregation. The reverend 
gentleman had them where he wanted them and he 
kicked them headlong into grace before they could 
escape. But, as the startled flock tumbled pell mell 
toward salvation, the exhorter bawled after them ; 

“ By the sin of woman all men were damned ! 
Let us humbly forgive our first mother, whose heri- 
tage was Eden and whose legacy was hell ! ” 

And another day, walking in Union Square with 
Weyward, Oliver said ; “ There is no such thing 
as temptation ; there are no devils, only deviltries ; ” 
and Weyward replied ; 

“ No devils? There are legions born every hour. 


THE LAW. 


205 


legions that die every hour, legions alive, walking 
the earth. A personal devil ? Millions, my dear 
fellow ; go to the window.’’ 

He meant woman ; Oliver wondered at his bitter- 
ness, — a bitterness that distorted the saddest of all 
truths. 

‘‘ I don’t know, Dulcie,” he said ; I don’t know 
what to say. I can’t help wishing she’d let you 
alone.” 

He certainly did not know what to say. It was 
already the end of October, and since September 
Tessie had made Ivan’s home her home. The girl 
was infatuated ; she clung to Ivan with a sort of 
desperate terror, trying to kill memory, but she could 
not live in the present, and she could hope for 
nothing in the future, — and her agony drove her to 
Dulcie. 

What Ivan chose to do Oliver felt concerned 
nobody but Ivan. He was sorry for his friend’s 
weakness, he was certain that the young fellow’s 
talent would go out in this fiercer flame. It did not ; 
it flared at that moment with a brilliancy startling, 
and the ebauche was already a picture, perfect in 
technical detail, glowing with a promise that stifled 
the calculations of criticism. 

As for Tessie, if Ivan was her idol, the picture was 
her shrine, — nay, it was part of her; and, sometimes 
at midnight, she would wake and creep into the 
studio to sit before the canvas, content to be near 
the unseen easel in the darkness. 

Once Ivan found her asleep in a chair before it. 


2o6 


OUTSIDERS. 


and it frightened him strangely. That day he did 
no work, but rambled off into the country with 
Tessie, seeking perhaps for the peace that had left 
him when his eyes first met hers in the “ scarlet 
room of ‘‘ The Arabesque.’' 

Oliver had nothing to say, no advice to give. He 
wished Tessie would not worry Dulcie to death, but 
he said nothing more on the subject to Dulcie. 
Besides, his own affairs were not exactly to his 
liking. 

Mr. Mawly filled the halls with perfume at inter- 
vals, but Oliver did not care to give him the 
manuscript of '^The Self-Satisfied.” 

Finally one day Mr. Mawly arrived to announce 
the certain financial failure of ‘‘ The Winged Boy ” 
unless Oliver followed this first ballon d'essai with 
a new book. 

Oliver listened in silence to Mr. Mawly’s plausi- 
ble plans for a future. Mr. Mawly was persuasive 
and pathetic by turns ; he viewed with alarm the 
disaster to Oliver’s hopes ; being a philanthropist by 
nature and profession he made light of his own 
losses, but the spectacle of Oliver perishing in the 
vat of letters for lack of a life-belt to keep him afloat 
tore Mr. Mawly with an anguish that only such a 
publisher can feel. 

'' The public will not buy your book,” he said ; 

what can I do, Mr. Lock? ” 

Advertise,” suggested Oliver. 

‘‘ What man can do,” said Mr. Mawly with 
emotion, ‘‘ I have done.” 


THE LAW. 


207 


Well/’ said Oliver wearily ; if you assure me 
that your publishing ‘‘ The Self-Satisfied ” may save 
both books, I will give it to you, — on that under- 
standing.” 

The same terms?” asked Mr. Mawly, rubbing 
the solitaire on his finger. I can not risk an 
advance.” His polished green eyes were fixed on 
space ; he silently exhaled perfume from every pore, 
like an inocuous Upas tree. 

So the thing was settled, and Oliver threw his 
second book after the first, hopefully, — for there was 
much of the gambler in him, when the hazard 
concerned only himself. 

He stood looking after Mawly as that embodied 
Vale of Cashmere descended the stairway with the 
manuscript of ‘‘ The Self-Satisfied,” promising cheer- 
fully to draw up an agreement in writing as Oliver 
insisted he should do. 

‘‘ I don’t know why,” thought Oliver, watching the 
shiny silk hat sinking into the pit of the stair- 
way, — I don’t know why the whipper-in should 
be afraid of the fox.” 

He returned to his room singing cheerfully : 

“ The Master of Harriers wears a green coat. 
The Master of Hounds a pink ’un — 

The Devil he cares not a damn what he wears 
When he’s hunting the Bishop of Lincoln ! ” 

Fortune had been casting sheep’s-eyes at Oliver 
lately ; for some occult reason Eugene Smith had 
continued his eighty dollars a week. Beside that, 


2o8 


OUTSIDERS. 


as his articles in Zig-Zag signed, he found it 
possible to dispose of one or two very short stories 
at very low rates, to other papers. 

Comments on his ‘‘ Winged Boy ” appeared now 
and then in the so-called “ critical department 
peculiar to moribund journals, and sure to increase 
in virulence as the journal approaches dissolution. 

The Winged Boy ” occasioned some excitement 
among a group of the youngest reporters on the 
Daily Spy^ and that prejudiced good old Mrs. 
Bottom against book and author. 

She knew how to spell literature backward, bless 
her heart, and her duties as the Spy s critic included 
the firm suppression of enthusiasm among young 
journalists from Park Row to Herald Square. 

So she rebuked book and author with the artless 
indignation of a disturbed tabby-cat, and settled 
down again to literature, keeping a malevolent eye 
on the scared reporters. 

Meanwhile, Oliver had begun ‘‘The Iron City'* 
at last, and he started it, writing by the window in 
the morning sunshine, while Dulcie in the next 
room sat silent over her mending, and the little dog, 
nose against the panes, stared out at the sparrows 
chirping in every naked tree-top. 

The theme of steel was always partly a dirge to 
him. 

But there was, too, something of triumph in the 
iron concord, something at least hopeful in the 
heaviest sorrow that the murmur of the city 
brought, even at midnight. 


THE LAW. 


209 


The theme sobered him always; immensity de- 
presses ; all that dominates, temporal and spiritual, 
saddens in the end. 

That night he finished his work, tired to death 
with the strain and pitiless tension of his theme. 

The Iron City seemed to weigh his shoulders to 
his knees. 

Dulcie, in her room, had lighted the lamp, and 
now she looked up from her book, — a tattered 
skeleton of a book she had bought that morning in 
a second hand store on Broadway. 

“To think,'' said Oliver, “that these critics should 
strike men who are hitched to a book and racked 
on it as they used to break people on wheels ! " 

“ Listen to this book," said Dulcie mischievously ; 

“ ‘ Men exist for the sake of one another. Teach 
them then or bear with them.' " 

“ That's not logic either," said Oliver, wondering 
where he had heard the lines before. 

“ No ? " said Dulcie, delighted ; “ listen, Oliver : 

“ ‘ If thou findest in human life anything better 

than justice, truth, temperance, fortitude, 

turn to it with all thy soul.' " 

“ Oh," said Oliver, “ I know now ; have you never 
before read the Imperial paradox?" 

“Never," said Dulcie, and her face flushed with 
her enthusiasm. 

Biting into the pie-crust of literature and encoun- 
tering Antoninus had excited the!girl. She lay back 
in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, and, 
from a dozen dog-eared pages, she read to Oliver 


210 


OUTSIDERS. 


what she had marked. She had marked what she 
fouFid lovable and noble at first reading, taking a 
deeper pleasure in setting it aside to enjoy again 
with Oliver. Her eager upward glance at intervals, 
her hair in gleaming disorder, her pauses to see 
what he might think, doubtful at times of his sym- 
pathy — all this touched and amused him. 

He watched her fingers smoothing the tattered 
leaves with delicate devotion, a devotion he him- 
self had never felt for books. But the love of 
books was in her, he could not fail to see that in 
her timid deference to every ragged page. 

That the love of worthy things had long ago 
budded in her child’s breast he could not doubt ; 
that it had not perished in the arid routine or hurt 
bewilderment of her life since she had left the con- 
vent was equally certain. Just what appreciation 
and culture she was capable of, he could not 
guess. 

She had been taking her lessons now ever since 
Oliver’s contract with Zig-Zag brought him his 
eighty dollars a week. Oliver went to Signor 
Ditti’s with her, and called for her, a precaution 
that had its effect on that simian Italian and on 
the flotsam and jetsam from the fringe of society 
that made the Signor’s Conservatory” a rendezvous 
for the unclassed. 

Now, watching the changing expressions grow 
and fade in her face as she sat reading her first love, 
Antoninus, he felt a new courage, a new faith in 
her future. For surely this instinct for the best in 


THE LAW. 


211 


the world meant more than a mere guarantee of 
physical virtue. 

She stopped reading suddenly. 

‘‘ Do you know how happy I am ? ** she said, as 
though the confession amazed her own ears. 

Are you ? he laughed, watching the colour in 
her cheeks. 

“ I can scarcely realise it myself — I don't know 
why I am so perfectly happy either, but, to-night, 
I feel a curious expectancy, a thrill in my throat 
that excites me — like the pleasure and suspense 
you feel in the first notes of a song. Oh, do you 
understand me, Oliver ? " 

He said he did. 

‘‘How deliciously exciting life is! I had no 
idea — I thought life was what I saw when Mazie 
and Sylvia and I had such good times — but it was 
childish and silly — I didn't know what pleasure 
could be." 

“And — what is pleasure?" he asked, smiling. 

“Why — this 1 " 

They turned and looked around at the shabby 
walls. Could she find happiness in this grotesque 
parody on home, — in this impossible situation where 
the first false move on either side meant mis- 
chief? 

“You mean — you are contented?" he asked. 

“No, oh no — but contentment is not happiness 
— is it?" 

“Indeed it is not," said Oliver, laughing at her 
philosophy. 


212 


OUTSIDERS. 


She observed his amusement shyly, her delicate 
chin resting on the edge of the closed book. But 
his amusement seldom hurt her, partly because she 
had no trace of suspicion in her nature, partly be- 
cause she believed implicitly in Oliver's view of 
things. When she spoke it was not with the diffi- 
dence that dreads a dissenting opinion, but with the 
desire to have her own words and belief remoulded 
by this new confidant of hers. 

She curled up on the sofa, book under her chin, 
intrenching herself against his persuasions to a 
dinner at Martin's ; and, at length, he gave up and 
sat down to wait for the coming of Spinkle's blond 
assistant with the usual dinner of boiled meat and 
vegetables. 

‘‘ It is curious," she said dreamily, “ how little 
you ever question me." 

He looked up quickly, saying that he should never 
think of demanding any confidence from her that 
she did not offer. 

‘‘ But I don't like that," she said almost pettishly; 
‘‘ I do want you to ask me things. There is no one 
else to care what I do." 

‘‘ I do care," he said. 

“Then, if you do, find fault sometimes." 

She lay there, watching the amused expressions 
pass across his face, wondering herself what it was 
she wanted. It may have been praise, for he sel- 
dom praised her, 

“ I sang to suit Signor Ditti to-day," she said. 

“ Was he pleased ? " 


THE LAW. 


213 


“Yes. Are you ? 

He could not mistake the wistful eyes; he went 
over and sat down on the lounge beside her, taking 
her idle hands in his. 

“ I am very, very proud of you, Dulcie,’’ he said ; 
“your success is the greatest pleasure I could have, 
little comrade.'' 

He said it to please her, but, even before he 
finished, he realised it was the truth he was speak- 
ing. 

He had never before spoken to her like that ; it 
thrilled her deliciously to feel the warmth in his 
voice — the voice she obeyed so unquestioningly, 
the voice she, until that moment, had only found 
kindly, indifferent and impersonally pleasant. 

As he sat there, looking down at her, something 
of tenderness touched him — nay, more — an alarm 
for her helplessness, her inexperience, her utter 
dependence on the decency of the world. 

He, sitting there beside her, could, through affec- 
tion, make her what he wished, — shape her to his 
will, mould her delicate soul, incline her desires to 
meet his own. 

He realised all that, facing the question imper- 
sonally, but acknowledging that the woman beside 
him was ripe for the influence of man — any man in 
whom her inexperience found the needed support 
and sympathy. A straw in the balance would 
shape her course ; a straw in the wind — and she 
would follow straw and wind. 

He knew enough of women to know how easy it 


214 


OUTSIDERS. 


IS to arouse love in a woman who has nothing but 
love to return for kindness. 

“ Are you asleep, Dulcie?’' he asked. 

‘‘Yes,’' she said with a comfortable little sigh. 
She opened her grey eyes, then drew his hands 
over her eyes, holding them there. 

She did not release his hands ; he bent lower ; 
their fingers interlocked ; his face rested on their 
tightening hands. 

Then, their hands fell away, and it was her face 
that his face touched — rested on, lip against lip. 

He sat up, amazed at his imbecility ; she lay 
there as if stunned, pale, breathless, covering her 
eyes with both white hands. 

He attempted to realise, what they had done. 
Self contempt and humiliation staggered him, drove 
him into his own room, where he stood staring at 
space. 


CHAPTER XX. 


dulcie's logic. 

A chapter including very little hut foolishness. 

The days that followed were strangely expectant 
yet exciting and happy to Dulcie. Warm hearted, 
inexperienced and impulsive, she saw no reason 
to change her attitude toward Oliver for the fault 
of a kiss on the lips. The kiss had surprised her 
as it had surprised him, but she never thought of 
resentment. 

To feel herself on her guard with him she found 
secretly delightful and exciting, — for she was quite 
certain that he must not kiss her another time — at 
least so easily. No, she would not permit him to 
touch her again ; the sensation ended by alarming 
her, and it made her ashamed, too, though she did 
not know exactly why. 

She had grown beautiful within a week ; her 
colour was exquisite, her eyes brilliant and soft by 
turns. That the girl cared more for Oliver than 
she had ever cared for anybody he could see plainly 
enough ; that, in her affectionate confidence in him 
she felt herself safe in her shy attitude of provoca- 
tion and denial, was also plain to him. Her fate 
lay entirely in his hands. 


2i6 


OUTSIDERS. 


As for him, he was determined neither to care for 
her seriously, nor to let her care for him. He was 
interested and affectionate, he was full of sympathy 
for her, but he carefully avoided anything to be 
construed into tender or hidden significance, any- 
thing that might intimate the possibility of a deeper 
understanding between them. Perhaps he was too 
careful, for sometimes Dulcie found herself not 
quite content with him. 

Then, one day toward the end of the week, when 
Oliver was out, Magnelius and Dawson Klaw ap- 
peared unannounced. 

Exactly what occurred Oliver could not at first 
make out from Dulcie’s frightened and disconnected 
account. However, it was certain that Dawson had 
threatened trouble for her and for Oliver unless 
she returned to her mother, and Magnelius Klaw 
had promised to stay away from the house if Dulcie 
would return and submit to Mrs. Wyvern's authority. 

Oliver found her in tears with both doors locked 
and Grippe placed at the sill as sentinel. She was 
quite unnerved and disheartened, saying between 
her sobs that she had forgotten all her former un- 
happiness, that they had been cruel to disturb her 
and frighten her, and that, come what would, she 
should never return to that house. 

‘‘ Of course not,'' said Oliver quietly ; ‘‘ there is 
nothing whatever to fear from those people. Try 
to tell me now just what Dawson said.'' 

Must I, Oliver ? " 

Certainly you must." 


dulcie’s logic. 


217 


“ He said that I am insane to live here with you, 
that everybody knows you are an adventurer, that 
— oh dear ! — that I am demoralized and incapable 
of distinguishing between right and wrong ” 

She put her hands to her eyes and leaned both 
elbows on the table. Her tears fell between her 
fingers ; he put his arm around her, saying there 
was nothing to fear from anybody. 

‘‘No — oh no. lam silly to be frightened, but 
the — the creature said a — a horrid thing 

“ What, Dulcie ? '' 

“ He — he said that I — I am your 

She laid her head on the table, crying as though 
her heart had broken. 

He let her remain until her grief changed to a 
hurt resentment, and she sat up, looking at him 
with cheeks aflame. 

“ I am ashamed — it was such a cruel lie — and to 
think of the horror of such a thing ! Do other peo- 
ple believe that I — I — am that kind of a girl ? 

Other people did think it and believe it. And he 
knew it. 

“ But — but I had not the money to give you a 
home alone — he blurted out, answering his self 
accusation to her. She had not accused him ; she 
did not understand what he meant when he spoke. 

“ I did what I Could,'' he said sullenly, as though 
stung by a retort from her ; yet she had been silent 
and he knew it. 

“ It is not your fault," she said, vaguely compre- 
hending that he felt he had failed in something 


2i8 


OUTSIDERS. 


toward her ; ‘‘ I know how good and patient you 
have been with me, always. What do you care for 
that horrible Klaw man and his lies ! 

That she should offer him consolation for a 
wrong done her by him completed his unhappi- 
ness. 

“ It is terrible,’' she said, quite calmly, and if 
people believe that of us — why — why the disgrace 
must hurt you, too, Oliver. And to think I never im- 
agined such a thing! Oh, I am selfish and careless ! 
I never considered what the sacrifice has been to 
you ; how could I ? And you have been so patient, 
keeping me here with you while people slandered 
you.” 

She covered his hands with both of hers; he 
looked at her amazed, almost ready to laugh at her 
misinterpretation of the situation. But there was 
no use in telling her that it is never the man in such 
cases who suffers from slander. 

Dulcie,” he said, ‘‘the fault is mine; I should 
have begged or borrowed to have found you a 
home somewhere else. I will do it now ; you will 
always be in my care, but we must not live so near 
together.” 

“ But — I want to ” 

“So do I, but it is not best.” 

“Yes, it is; I can not stay alone ; it almost kills 
me.” 

“There is nothing else for us, Dulcie.” 

“ Yes, there is ! I can not go away by myself. 
I have nobody — nobody in the world ! — and the 


dulcie’s logic. 


219 


darkness of a strange room, all alone In a strange 
house — and the silence at night, and no one to say 
good-night to — oh, Oliver, I can not go back to that 
— indeed, I can not after all the happiness I have 
had here. I go to bed without fear ; I know you 
are here, writing by your lamp long after I am safe 
asleep ; nothing frightens me, nothing makes me 
afraid ! If I lie awake it is to think how safe I am 
and how good you are. I listen to the rustle of 
your pad — I hear your pen on the paper — I hear 
you tear up sheets, and crumple up sheets, and 
scrape matches to light your pipe ; and I hear your 
chair when you push it back to rise and walk up 
and down. Oliver, I am afraid without you ; don’t 
send me away ! ” 

After a silence, he said : What do you wish ? ” 

‘‘ I wish to stay,” she answered. 

Then people will believe ” 

‘‘ It is none the less a lie,” she said, with clear 
eyes meeting his. 

“Yet — you can not stay, Dulcie — don’t you see 
that slander hurts? ” 

“ Dear,” she said, very humbly, “ I forgot ; I am 
asking too much.” 

“ No, no,” he said, touched to the quick ; “ slander 
doesn’t hurt men — it makes no difference to me, 
Dulcie, — it is you I am trying to think of — upon 
my soul, I hope I can at least devote one unselfish 
thought to you.” 

“You have never done anything else,” she said, 
catching fire at the emotion in his voice and face ; 


220 


OUTSIDERS. 


you have been truer than a brother, more tender 
than a lover — you have been my shelter in sad days ; 
you have saved me from the terror of loneliness ; 
you have healed every hurt, every sorrow.'’ 

She spoke with the exaltation and exaggerations 
of the very young — her emotion stilted her speech 
and made it solemnly childish ; but in her soft eyes, 
and in the generous blood that mantled her cheeks, 
he read the deep, true gratitude that rests only in a 
blameless heart. 

He sat silent, trying to understand this strange, 
sweet nature that hazard had dealt with without 
mercy. 

‘‘What are we to do? " he said at last. 

“Nothing — unless I harm you by staying," she 
said, wistfully. 

“ But I harm you, Dulcie." 

“ How can you ? " 

“By giving the world a reason for talking." 

“We give the world no reason," she said gravely. 

She began to fascinate him with her unlettered 
logic. 

“ Once," he said, watching the effect of his words, 
“ I bent over you and kissed you. Have you for- 
gotten ? " 

“No," she said, faintly ; “ I was ashamed." 

“ I only said it because you can see that I am like 
others — not a fit guardian for you, Dulcie." 

“You never — did it again." 

“ Would you resist, Dulcie?" 

She drew her hand away from where it rested on 


dulcie’s logic. 


221 


his, raised it, then let it fall. Two fingers touched 
his wrist. 

“Why do you ask me?'' she said, controlling 
the unsteadiness in her voice. 

He scarcely heard her ; the touch of her hand 
thrilled him. He took it up, she withdrew it again, 
watching him with soft, uncertain eyes. When he 
bent toward her she lowered her dainty head, then, 
as their lips met, she leaned back, his face .resting 
on hers, her hands covering her closed eyes. 

When she pushed him away she was in tears and 
there was a frightened look in her face that startled 
him. 

“Don't look like that, Dulcie," he said, scarcely 
knowing what he was saying. 

“ I can't help it when you kiss me." 

She was his for the word — for a caress, for a 
whisper. He had only to stretch out his arms, she 
would not resist, she would ask nothing, no prom- 
ise, no faith. It rested with him what he should 
teach her that life holds for women, — as men have 
taught since the dawn of life. 

She was his at the first caress — evil and good 
were words, — he the interpreter, and his acts her 
gospel. In her ignorance of love, and of sin through 
love, she feared neither, dumbly watching him 
there, confused, expectant, wondering what she 
found so sweet, so thrilling, so distressing in his 
caress. She wept a little ; she felt unnerved and 
bewildered, yet there was nothing of fear in her 
heart, no dread of him. 


222 


OUTSIDERS. 


What is the use, Dulcie,'* he said, resting his 
head heavily on his hand ; this cannot go on — 
safely. We are both too young to be very wise, we 
are a temptation to each other in spite of your in- 
nocence and my knowledge.** 

He pushed his chair away, throwing one arm 
over the upholstered back. 

Tve been all sorts of a fool,** he said, “ but it 
never occurred to me I had any talent for the con- 
temptible. If I am weak it is well I should know 
it before I become vicious, Dulcie. You cannot 
stay here ; I am like all the rest. We*re a rotten 
lot — we unclassed pariahs.** 

What are you saying ? ** she cried, reproaching 
him with tender eyes ; is it a wicked thing for 
you — for me to let you kiss me ? ** 

‘‘ No — not that ; there is no reason for me to do 
it ; it*s weak — hopelessly weak.** 

‘‘ But — if you want to — and I — I do not resist — ** 
Good heavens ! ** he said roughly, ‘‘ it*s exactly 
that, — you don*t resist ! Can*t you see the dan- 
ger?” 

“ Danger ? ” she repeated, perplexed and curl- 
ously resentful. 

'‘Yes, of course. If you don*t resist, where will 
this end ? — what will happen, Dulcie ? ** 

" I don*t care what happens,** she said, lowering 
her eyes. 

“You — you don*t care?** he repeated. 

She shook her head. 

What love might be she had no idea ; love to 


dulcie’s logic. 


223 


her was such a remote contingency, remote and 
meaningless as death. She had never thought 
their affection meant more than its face value to 
either of them ; and, as for the kiss, it was noth- 
ing significant, merely an impulse that ended in ex- 
citing and thrilling her with a delicate shame, a 
consternation not entirely unpleasant. 

Listen, Dulcie,*' he said ; there is nothing in 
what we have done — as you say — nothing to per- 
plex either of us, so don’t look as though you were 
going to cry. We are two very sensible people, 
you and I, and we are going to decide what is best 
for you to do ; and then we’ll do it.” 

But she was tired of the argument ; she shook 
her head, saying she wished to stay with him, that 
he was silly to fear love, — that neither he nor she 
knew what love meant. 

‘‘ So I am going to stay,” she said brightly, and 
that is quite sufficient for you to know.” 

She slipped away with a gesture of adieu, looking 
back, as she reached the door of her own room, to 
see whether the trouble had left his eyes too. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE SUMMONS. 

In which Oliver finds an empty room. 

When Oliver walked into the office of Zig-Zag, 
the cashier was rather more prompt than usual with 
the check. 

Hello ! ’’ said Oliver, this is a blank check, 
Mr. Botts.'* 

I know it,” said Botts impudently. 

‘‘ Well, what does it mean ? ” demanded Oliver, 
staring at him. 

‘‘Ask the governor,” replied Botts briefly, re- 
tiring to the interior of his wire cage. 

Oliver, holding the check in his gloved hand, 
walked into Tom Fydo's room. Fydo was at work, 
but he glanced up at Oliver solemnly as the latter 
laid his hand on the back of the writer’s chair. 

“ What does a blank check mean, Tom ? ” asked 
Oliver. 

“I don’t know,” said Fydo, “ but the governor is 
in there and he wants to see you, I believe.” 

As Oliver turned away with an unpleasant fore- 
boding of trouble, the rat-faced office boy entered 
and hailed him with his customary freedom : 


THE SUMMONS. 225 

Say, the governor wants youse to bring the 
check to him.’* 

Thank you, my infant Chesterfield,” replied 
Oliver, a retort most distasteful to the boy, who 
suspected hidden derision, and muttered darkly 
about somebody who would git de g. b.” before 
many minutes had elapsed. 

‘‘ What’s the g. b., Tom ? ” asked Oliver, who was 
not yet post-graduate in his country’s argot. 

But Fydo refused to explain, and Oliver went 
slowly into Smith’s private office, still holding the 
strange check in his fingers. 

Smith was at his desk ; he pretended not to see 
Oliver at first, but Oliver called his attention to his 
existence very promptly by laying the blank check 
on the desk under Smith’s fat face. 

Well, well, Mr. Lock! ” said Smith, looking up 
with a pout, ‘‘what is the trouble now?” 

“ None that I know of,” replied Oliver quietly. 

That passed the deal to Smith, who did not care 
for it. He coughed, wiped his glasses, picked up 
the check, and said ; — “ Ah — yes — I — um — rec- 
ollect.” 

Oliver waited for him to explain what he rec- 
ollected, which he seemed in no hurry to do. 

Finally Oliver said : “Will you fill out the check, 
Mr. Smith ? ” 

“The fact is, Mr. Lock,” said Smith, “your work 
is not satisfactory.” 

“Why?” said Oliver. His heart sank, but he 
spoke coolly. 


226 


OUTSIDERS. 


I have asked you to spice your stuff and you 
won’t/* 

“ I don’t know what you mean by spice,” replied 
Oliver, colouring up. 

‘‘Well, I’ll explain if I am obliged to. Your 
stuff is all very pretty and dainty, but it’s too 
cursed literary — the points are too fine, too subtle; 
you write over the heads of our readers. I can’t 
pay eighty dollars a week for three columns that 
nobody reads — and I won’t, — damned if I do ! ” 

Oliver was silent. 

“I’m going to make Zig-Zag popular; I want 
spice, I want to hoist the skirts of decency far 
enough — not too far — but just far enough to make 
you whistle through your teeth. Scent the idea. 
Lock?” 

“Certainly,” said Oliver, “the idea is filthy 
enough to scent.” 

“ What’s that ! ” demanded Smith with a face 
like a congested baby. 

“ I said, in substance,” replied Oliver, “ that your 
ideas are more or less offensive.” 

“ I’ll allow no one to talk like that in this office ! ” 
snapped Smith, pouting with anger and astonish- 
ment. 

“ Then refrain from offending,” said Oliver, 
controlling his desire to fling the ink-pot at his 
chief’s fat head. 

“ I’ll refrain from filling out that check,” bawled 
Smith, “ if you answer me again.” 

“ Oh, no, you won’t,” replied Oliver between 


THE SUMMONS. 22/ 

tightening Ups; ‘^and I’ll trouble you to fill out 
that check at once.” 

Now Smith was the sort of coward that dreads 
the annoyance of a personal encounter. He saw 
that Oliver meant mischief ; he thought of the dam- 
age to his papers, his clothes, and his eye-glasses, 
which would follow fisticuffs. Besides, he knew he 
could not avoid filling out the check sooner or later. 

He picked up a pen with an insulting laugh, say- 
ing he could not refuse charity where it was needed ; 
and Oliver crumpled up the check, snapped it into 
his face, and strolled out, for he felt in a most 
murderous frame of mind. 

Before his excitement had cooled enough to fill 
him with dismay at the prospect before him, he had 
reached Union Square. What on earth was he to 
do for money ? Dulcie must live ; so must he, for 
that matter. 

To find himself here on the pavement without 
means, enraged him when he recollected all the 
work he had done for nothing. He thought of his 
two books and it made him furious to remember 
that neither had brought him one single penny. 
He stopped short in his aimless walk; across the 
square he could see Mr. Chatterton Mawly’s office, 
where his books were published by that scented and 
benevolent friend of young authors. 

For a week or more Oliver had expected a check 
from Mr. Mawly. There was no doubt that the 
two books were selling, he had heard that every- 
where. Even those literati who exist to aid in the 


228 


OUTSIDERS. 


strangulation of individuality, had been seriously 
divided in their opinions concerning Oliver’s last 
book, The Self-Satisfied.” Youthful authors had 
praised it with the intemperate enthusiasm of the 
very young, a generous mistake which always de- 
feats its own ends. 

The bulk of the press condemned it vigourously, 
a proceeding that advertised it and procured for 
Oliver the respect of those whom he knew and the 
tribute of curiosity from everybody who read the 
book. 

And yet, from this book, he had not received a 
penny. 

Thinking of these things he crossed the street and 
ascended the stairs leading to the shabby offices of 
Mr. Chatterton Mawly. Oliver knew that Mr. 
Mawly was there from the gust of perfume that 
smote him on the dark stairway. He entered the 
room without ceremony and looked around to find 
it tenantless. 

The room was bare of furniture, too, save for a 
big desk and a chair. Packing boxes lay about in 
every direction, filled with Mr. Mawly’s publications, 
ready for shipment. Oliver was well aware that 
Mawly’s books were to be found on every railway 
train, every hotel news-stand, and he felt reasonably 
certain that whatever check was due him would not 
be insignificant. 

Mr. Mawly was in the next room talking to a 
young woman, who, Oliver supposed, was offering 
Mr. Mawly a book for publication. He could not 


THE SUMMONS. 229 

help but hear the conversation ; the conversation 
itself was very familiar, too : 

‘‘Yes,’' Mr. Mawly was saying, “I thank you for 
your courtesy. I will be pleased to consider the im- 
mediate publication of your novel, ‘A Bride’s 
Temptation,’ and I shall hope to include it in 
Mawly’s Monuments, Cloth, one dollar, paper fifty 
cents, — also in Mawly’s Contemporary Classics ; — 
‘ Wooed, not Won ! ’ by the author of ” 

A wagon rumbling through the street below 
drowned the voice of Mr. Mawly. Oliver stood at 
the window, biting his lip impatiently, while from 
the rear room Mawly went on in the familiar for- 
mula he had come to know. 

Presently the conversation ceased ; Oliver heard 
Mawly conducting his prey to the stairs, and he 
turned with the dull interest of a fellow victim to 
see who the girl might be. It was Violet Highlands ; 
she did not see Oliver, and Mawly bowed her out 
in a perfumed breeze of compliments. 

When Mr. Mawly saw Oliver, he did not seem 
particularly pleased. However, he shook his hand 
with affected cordiality and made a jocular inquiry 
concerning a new book to bolster up the two that 
he had published. 

“ I wrote you for a check,” said Oliver ; “ I have 
received no reply.” 

“A check, my dear Mr. Lock!” exclaimed 
Mawly, pretending to relish the pleasantry. 

“ I am quite serious,” said Oliver ; “ I know the 

books are selling. I need the money very badly, 


230 


OUTSIDERS. 


and if a check is not yet due you can give me an ac- 
ceptance to discount. I must have some money 
from my books at once.** 

Your books,** said Mr. Mawly solemnly, ‘‘ have 
not sold sufficiently to pay for publication.** 

‘‘ What ! ** said Oliver in angry astonishment. 

I refer you to our Mr. Welcher. He will gladly 
go over our ledgers with you,** said Mr. Mawly 
suavely. 

‘‘Very well,** replied Oliver, “ where is he? I 
should like to see these ledgers at once.** 

“ Mr. Welcher is in Sioux City,** replied Mawly. 
“ And the ledgers ? ** 

“ In Sioux City, at our main office.** 

“ How many copies have been sold,** asked Oliver, 
resolutely controlling his temper. 

“ That I cannot tell you without the ledgers,’* 
replied Mawly, with the faintest approach to a sneer. 

Oliver looked steadily into his polished green 
eyes. Then he walked out, sick at heart, not 
knowing where to go or where to turn. Nor could 
he see how he was to force Mawly to an accounting. 
He had no proof that Mawly lied ; the books were 
in Sioux City — if they existed at all ; he had no 
written agreement to aid him in the matter, no 
scrap of writing to prove he owned the copyright 
of his own books. 

Oliver turned homeward. The fault, after all, had 
been his own ; he had neglected the commonest 
business precautions with this probable swindler 
and he would have to suffer for his own imbecility. 


THE SUMMONS. 


231 


But the worst of it was that it was not he alone 
who would be the sufferer ; Dulcie must suffer too. 

How could he have been so blind ? Why, the 
fellow’s flat, boneless face was enough to label him, 
— the green agate eyes, the stench of scent in his 
clothes, the lying tones of his plausible voice had 
all condemned him in advance. What a fool he 
had been to trust to him! Any office boy down 
town would know better than to deal as he had 
dealt ; any tenpenny clerk would have more busi- 
ness common-sense in a minute than he had dis- 
played in six months. 

“ Publishers are no better and no worse than 
other business men,” Weyward often repeated to 
him, ‘‘ but they have to deal with a class of sen- 
timentalists known as authors, and naturally, being 
men of business, they do the best for themselves 
that they can. But there exist disreputable pub- 
lishers who do not stop at theft, and these people 
fight like rats to retain what plunder they can. 
A suit or a threat of jail does not scare them ; no 
calf in the abattoir is as helpless as the bleating 
sheep-eyed author in their clutches ; the popular 
symbol concerning the cat in hell without claws 
might safely be applied to the miserable author in 
the grip of those publishers.” 

Whether or not Chatterton Mawly was one of 
these honest publishers he had no definite means of 
knowing. He cared little, anyway ; he was sick of 
books and publishers, he was sick of trying to win 
his bread with books, he was mortified, tired, fagged 


232 


OUTSIDERS. 


out With the gentle art of letters. No so-called re- 
spectable publisher would have his books ; sickly 
critics and stunted youths were his moribund 
prophets, the unclassed chanted his dirge and 
waved nicotine-soiled fingers at each other discuss- 
ing the “ new man,” Oliver Lock. 

He believed his work had fallen on barren soil 
and that he himself had fallen among thieves ; he 
found no hope in the few newspapers who noticed 
his work, and he wondered what was left for him 
to do in a world that so utterly ignored him and 
the wares he had laboured less to make than to sell. 

But, after all, what did he know of this world 
within the city ? He saw it from the edge of a rat- 
hole, that was all. Was there wealth, culture, intel- 
ligence in the iron city ? He saw nothing of it 
save the outside of splendid homes, the outsides of 
carriages, the exterior of theatres, museums, cathe- 
drals, colleges, universities. 

So he walked on, staring stupidly at the people 
passing, noting apathetically the transverse clefts 
in the brick and mortar that men call streets, 
until he came to the trees in the square where he 
lived. 

As he entered the Monastery a sudden wave of 
homesickness came over him, — of longing for his 
own world again — for the calmer, older civilisation 
that the grey ocean barred from his tired eyes — a 
yearning for the quiet of ancient cities, the fair 
speech of simpler races, the tranquillity of a con- 
tinent where no man hastened toward the goal of 


THE SUMMONS. 233 

life, knowing that with every step he also drew the 
closer to his end. 

Physically and mentally tired out, he climbed the 
dark uncarpeted stairs where the cold stench of gas 
leaked from black corners, where the dust of months 
rose from the creaking boards. 

At his own landing he hesitated, dreading lest 
Dulcie should see the worry of failure in his 
eyes. 

No, he could not go in to her yet ; an hour would 
drive some of the bitterness from his heart, and 
then there would be time to think. He turned 
aside and knocked at TrivoPs studio. Trivol hailed 
him, and he entered to find that young gentleman 
on the top of a step-ladder, in an attitude recalling 
the eccentric saint who spent some years imitating 
a stork to the glory of Heaven. 

‘‘What the mischief are you doing up there?*' 
asked Oliver. 

“ Keeping warm,” replied Trivol cheerfully. 

“Warm?” repeated Oliver, puzzled. 

“Yes; I'm broke and can't afford a fire, so I light 
the gas and sit on top of this ladder. There's thirty 
degrees difference between ceiling and floor. Come 
up and try it. My models all kick because I have 
no fire, so I pose them up here,” continued Trivol ; 
“ but the drawings that result are idiotic, Oliver, 
simply idiotic ; I see nothing but the underside of 
their toes. What's the matter, Oliver? You look 
ill. ” 

Oliver made a gesture, opening both hands 


234 


OUTSIDERS. 


wearily, and sat down, eyes closed, head resting on 
his clenched fist. 

I don't know what to do," he said; “nobody 
pays me for my work, nobody asks for it, either. I 
could stand it if I were alone in the world, but this 
sort of thing hurts me now." 

“ On account of — of the pretty girl — Dulcie Wy- 
vern?" 

“ Yes — on her account. Heaven knows, IVe 
made a mess of it so far; I must have been insane 
to invite the slander that could not fail to come. 

Trivol, you never thought any harm of her, did 
»» 

you ? 

“ I think none — now." 

Oliver raised his head. “ Did you at first ? " 

“I believe we all did," replied Trivol. “If we 
were wrong you have dealt unfairly by her, Oliver. 
Lord ! A nursing child would have had his sus- 
picions of such an arrangement." 

The rebuke went home. 

“You certainly couldn't have cared much for 
Miss Wyvern's future," said Trivol. 

“ I didn't, Dick, and that's the miserable truth. 
Miss Wyvern is the most inexperienced, the most 
unselfish girl I ever knew. She's had no chance ; 
the pack have been after her full cry from the be- 
ginning — and to think that I should have been one 
of them ! Lord, Dick, I'm worse than they ! " 

“You're a very generous boy with your head 
stuffed full of your own work," said Trivol. “Your 
handicap gave you no chance ; you carried too 


THE SUMMONS. 


235 


much weight to undertake another burden. But 
as long as you did undertake it, you should have 
done it with heart and soul until it brought you to 
your knees.” 

I know,” said Oliver, with set lips. 

There’s nothing to do now but to give Miss 
Wy vern a chance ; that means to stand out of her 
way.” 

‘‘ I know it.” 

‘‘ Work yourself to the bone to give her a chance ; 
you did not owe her that at first, but you owe it to 
her now.” 

Trivol shoved his paint-stained hands into his 
pocket and slowly mounted his step-ladder. 

From the top he looked down on Oliver in silence. 

Dick,” said Oliver, ^‘it is too late.” 

‘‘There is,” observed Trivol, “another way — not 
much of a way ” 

Oliver looked up at him, startled. 

“A way,” continued Trivol, tranquilly, “that 
possibly smacks of the melodrama. But it appeals 
to me.” 

“ What is it ? ” asked Oliver, in a low voice. 

“ Marry,” replied Trivol, rolling a cigarette. 
“ You’re both rank outsiders, you know, and you’ll 
never be anything else.” 

He smoked his cigarette to the end before either 
spoke again. His model strolled in before he had 
finished a second cigarette, and Oliver rose to go. 

“ My! ” observed the girl, “ain’t you comfortable 
a-huddlin’ up there like our gobbler after sunset.” 


236 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘Thanks, Tm sure,’* said Trivol, scarcely flattered 
at the comparison ; “ you’re late, my rural critic, 
and I want to know why! ” 

The big, handsome country lass tossed her head, 
and glanced with frank disapproval at Oliver. 

“ I’ve been helpin’ a lady to get her boxes into a 
cab,” she said, with a motion of her plump hand in 
the direction of Oliver’s room. 

“ What lady ? ” asked Oliver, sharply. 

“Yourn — I guess,” said the girl, giggling. “I 
reckon she wouldn’t have run away if you was good 
to her.” 

Oliver turned on his heel and went swiftly to his 
own room. The door between his room and Dul- 
cie’s was open ; he went in. 

The bureau, the dresser, the wash-stand were 
empty and dismantled. Scraps of paper and string, 
bits of crumpled ribbon, an empty medicine bottle 
or two lay about the floor. Her valise and box 
were gone, her closet was empty of hats or 
clothes ; nothing remained but the shabby furniture. 

Oliver turned back into his own room, where the 
little dog followed him, barking. He looked around 
for a scrap of paper, a message, anything to explain 
her flight ; he searched on the furniture, on his 
desk, among the leaves of the manuscripts scattered 
under the table. 

Finding nothing, he stood still in the centre of 
the room, staring vacantly about, until the little 
dog’s persistent caresses drew his attention. And 
the little dog was wise, too, for around his woolly 


THE SUMMONS. 237 

neck he bore a new bit of blue ribbon from which 
dangled an envelope for his master. 

Grippe barked excitedly as Oliver snatched the 
letter, then, his duty done, he ran around in a circle 
to subdue his triumphant emotions, and presently 
mounted a chair to watch his master read the 
message he had guarded so faithfully : 

Dear, dear Oliver, 

My mother is very ill and has sent for me. 
I must go ; after all, she is my mother. I feel so 
strangely about leaving ; it is so hard for me to go. 
Oliver — you don’t know how I have been crying, 
here at your desk, — I laid my head among your 
papers and waited for you to come back, and I 
cried all the while. 

You don’t come back, Oliver, and I must pack 
my things, for they say she is very ill, and so I 
must not wait. 

Dear, dear Oliver, don’t forget me, for I am 
frightened at being alone again. But perhaps you 
will be better able to write when I am not there — 
perhaps it is better for you not to have me to care 
for. 

I have been thinking that I am too selfish to 
take your money for an education that may not 
enable me to return anything to you for a long 
time. It has always hurt me to take the money 
you worked so hard for ; I have no right to any- 
thing — unless it be your affection — and I am not 
sorry that I am going. Oh, but yes I am, dear, 
dear Oliver ! It is breaking my heart to go. 

Don’t forget me ; don’t go away into the world 
somewhere and leave me. 

I am kissing Grippe now — and I am tying the 
ribbon around his neck. He knows a great deal, he 


238 


OUTSIDERS. 


is such a wise dog. I have whispered something 
into his ear — and he promises to tell no one in all 
the world what I have told him. Ask him, Oliver 
— I said that he might tell you. 

Dear Oliver — oh, if you were only here ! 

Your 

Dulcie. 

The cab is here, and you have not come. I am 
fearfully unhappy. Good-by. 

Late that night, Weyward sauntered in to find 
Oliver sitting at the table, head buried in the papers 
of his manuscript. 

I knocked a dozen times ; what’s the trouble, 
Oliver?” he demanded. 

The boy turned a haggard face toward him, mut- 
tering ; Trouble? Oh, yes, I’m in trouble. Let 
me alone, Weyward, — let me alone ! ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A TABLE FOR TWO. 

Concerning two views of life^ but admitting that there are 
more than two views of everything — including love and 
death. 

At seven o’clock that night the waiter from 
Spinkle’s brought in dinner for two as usual. 
Oliver lifted his head heavily, watching the spread- 
ing of the cloth with dull eyes. When the covers 
for two were laid, the pint of claret uncorked, the 
celery and olives placed, he stood up involuntarily, 
laying his hand on the back of Dulcie’s chair. 

Minute after minute passed, the waiter blinked 
pensively, watching the small dog. Grippe also 
waited, wistful brown eyes on the door of Dulcie’s 
room, ears alert to catch the rustle of her gown. 

The waiter stole a glance at Oliver, shuffled his 
felt-shod feet, then coughed behind his apron. 

The quarter of an hour allowed him had passed 
and he was due at Spinkle’s to tend bar. 

‘‘ Pardon, sir,” he said mildly ; ‘‘ may I serve the 
soup ? ” 

Oliver leaned both arms on Dulcie’s chair. 

You need not serve — us; you may go,” he said 
under his breath. 


240 


OUTSIDERS. 


The waiter hesitated : 

And, — pardon, sir — but to-morrow am I to lay 
two covers? ** 

Yes,’' said Oliver in a dull voice. 

When the waiter had gone. Grippe walked to the 
door of Dulcie’s room, sniffing at the unlighted 
silence suspiciously. After a while he came back 
and sat down at his master’s feet. 

Twice Oliver turned, thinking he heard sounds 
in the darkened room. Darkness is the door to the 
past, full of pale outlines dimly revealed, hiding 
movements and sounds and unseen eyes, and voices 
whispering behind shadows. 

At last he seated himself ; but he touched 
nothing ; the dishes chilled on the table ; the ice 
under the celery and olives melted. 

Weyward came again that night, careless of re- 
buke or impatience. It roused a strange anger in 
Oliver to see him sit there in Dulcie’s chair. But 
Weyward paid Oliver little attention at first ; he 
lighted his cigar, helped himself to the salted al- 
monds and claret, fed Grippe from the untouched 
plates, and finally filled Oliver’s glass and bade him 
drink. 

‘‘ Can’t you let me alone ! ” said Oliver unsteadily. 

‘‘They say,” observed Weyward, “ that Dulcie 
has gone away.” 

“ Who says so ? ” asked Oliver, with a dark flush 
under his eyes. 

“ It’s rumoured. Is it true ? ** 


A TABLE FOR TWO.' 24I 

Something of the sort. Don’t worry me, Wey- 
ward.” 

No — I won’t worry you. Shall I go ? ” 

Oliver looked across the table at the kindly young 
eyes. 

‘'Trouble is no mystery to me, either; but your 
attitude toward it gives it a dignity that it does not 
possess. Wisdom is the only sorrow whose dignity 
merits our deference,” said Weyward. 

“Wisdom?” repeated Oliver sullenly. “He is 
a wise man who lived yesterday ; he is wiser still who 
died last year.” 

“ That,” observed Weyward, “ is the first whine 
I ever heard from you, and — it will probably be the 
last.” 

Oliver glanced up angrily, then dropped his tired 
head on his hand again. 

“Yes,” he said, “it is my last whine, Weyward. 
I’m tired — I’m a very tired man.” 

He sat staring at the table, tracing with his left 
hand arabesques and phantom designs over the 
cloth. 

“My mistakes have tired me out,” he said, speak- 
ing in the same colourless voice ; “ I’m tired and 

perplexed with all these constant errors. I don’t 
know where to turn, to win the right of living ; I 
don’t know how it is done. Work brings me no- 
thing. I only bring trouble to those I care for.” 

He looked up with a faint smile : “ I’m not whin- 

ing ; I wish to live and to go on ! ” 

“That,” said Weyward, “ is the only solution of 


242 


OUTSIDERS. 


the riddle — go on. When you stumble for the last 
time you’ll arrive — somewhere.” 

Yes — somewhere — and wiser than he who starts 
to-morrow.” 

After Weyward had tired of his cigar and had 
finally laid it away in a saucer among its own 
ashes, he leaned both elbows on the table, saying ; 
‘‘ Tell me what troubles you, Oliver ; you don’t mind. 
I’m sure.” 

No, I don’t mind. I’ve lost my salary. I’ve lost 
all I hoped for in my books. I’ve lost some courage 
— not all — and ” 

‘'And ” repeated Weyward after a silence. 

“ I have lost a woman her reputation.” 

Weyward turned a cynical face toward him, saying 
that reputations were a drug in the market, but the 
black scowl that gathered on Oliver’s brow warned 
him to silence. 

“Women,” said Oliver, under his breath, “may 
perjure themselves in our behalf on earth, but in 
that day when truth only is the testimony, our last 
defence will find our witnesses on the other side.” 

“You mean — in Heaven?” inquired Weyward 
sarcastically. 

“ If the court sits there,” replied Oliver. 

“ Then,” said Weyward, “ I’ll see that the prosecu- 
tion does not lack witnesses when my case is called.” 

After a long silence Oliver said : “ I have always 
hated your attitude toward women.” 

“ Are you quite stainless yourself ? ” inquired 
Weyward. 


A TABLE FOR TWO. 


243 


Not quite/’ replied Oliver, with an ugly look 
across the table, ‘‘ but I doubt whether anybody 
will be the worse for the slippers I might have 
claims to collect.” 

‘‘ I have certainly an interesting collection,” said 
Weyward, laughing. 

He lighted another cigar and leaned back with a 
queer light in his eyes that made them, for a mo- 
ment, almost dreadful. 

What do you know about women ? ” he asked, 
at length. 

‘‘Only enough to envy them their decency.” 

“Well,” said Weyward, “many authorities at- 
tribute souls to women — it is a matter of opinion, 
of course.” He leaned forward with a savage smile, 
horrible on his pallid face. 

“ If they have,” he said, “ the one I married sold 
hers at auction.” 

“Married,” repeated Oliver, amazed. 

“ Why, yes ; didn’t you know it ? Everybody’s 
free to know it. I married before I was of age — 
one of your Americans. Our divorce was a great 
success.” 

He relighted his cigar at the lamp, sneering to 
himself. 

“ Certainly, my dear fellow,” he went on ; “ the 
divorce was a very great success; my name was 
dragged from Scotland to Wales and back again by 
way of Paris. You see, they thought a good deal 
of my people in England, and no notoriety was 
notorious enough for me. Why, the most brilliant 


244 


OUTSIDERS. 


newspaper men put themselves out to gather de- 
tails for publication. And I was very young then — 
scarcely eighteen, Oliver, and I had been very, very 
much in love ; — and I had never kissed a woman in 
all my life before I kissed my wife 

He shot an ugly look across the table, then 
laughed. 

‘‘ And to think you never heard of that famous 
case.’' 

‘‘ I did hear of it — in Paris — but I never thought 
of you.” 

‘‘The name was the same.” 

“ I never thought of you,” repeated Oliver. 

“ Well,” said Weyward, “ it’s all one. As for my 
wife — why, she married again and she seems to be 
happy — and so am I, Oliver, so am I. Life is so 
amusing, too — for sometimes my wife comes to my 
little evenings — you know the ones I mean — and — I 
believe I recently added to my collection a pair of 
slippers scented with mignonette.” 

“ Your wife ! ” he said horrified. 

“Yes — once. I tell you because you are my 
friend — and, if you meet her, it is well you should 
know. She has more than a single pair of slippers.” 

Weyward’s face had turned quite white ; again he 
relighted his cigar with trembling fingers. 

“So you see, Oliver, my friend, that I’m fond 
of company — when I want it. Am I not right in 
maintaining that knowledge is the only sorrow to 
be greeted with dignity?” 

But the cigar fell from his blanched lips; he 


A TABLE FOR TWO. 245 

dropped his elbows on the table, covering his head 
with both hands. 

“You see,'' he said in a broken, querrulous voice, 
“ I have never been able to kill the love she could 
not kill for me. I have dragged it about, — but it 
won't die, Oliver, it won't die." 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 

In which three people make a start in the worlds and a 
fourth bids fair to outdistance them, 

November began — and ended, without one word 
from Dulcie. At first he could scarcely work for 
thinking of her : he waited for the mail to be deliv- 
ered in the morning before he went out, he returned 
to await the noon delivery, he haunted the 
letter-box in the lower hallway until the postman 
had come and gone. Day after day, filled with an 
indefinable fear, he waited for a sign from her; 
sick with apprehension he wandered through the 
city, — never so far but that he could return to fore- 
stall the postman at the letter box. People who 
knew him spoke of his haggard face to others ; 
many believed he was overworking himself, one or 
two suggested he might be drinking. 

Both propositions were partly true ; the poor 
food that he could afford he scarcely tasted ; his 
sorrow and foreboding, his torturing wretchedness 
and anxiety had made him so morbid that he 
sought relief through work at last in startled des- 
peration ; he worked from daylight to midnight, 
craving the oblivion of exhaustion and the brief 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 


247 


sleep that fled from his eyes at the first dawn of 
light. He drank to stimulate his mind, but the re- 
action from a week of drunken fever left him with 
a horror of alcohol that cut short his appetite for 
more. 

November went out trailing a furious wind in its 
wake ; the square bristled with naked trees, the 
fountain no longer dripped among its water plants ; 
the basin lay empty, and the bricked pool was an 
arena where shivering sparrows lurked watching the 
dead leaves racing around the granite parapet. 
Dry, prickly buttons swung from the stark syca- 
mores, dropping one by one ; the grass grew darker 
and more brilliant, taking on that strange winter 
lustre that seems a parody on spring, — a malicious 
mockery in the presence of gaunt boughs and juice- 
less shrubs choked to the roots with rotting leaves. 

By day, from his dingy window, he could see the 
memorial arch through the network of leaden 
branches ; at twilight the electric lights turned its 
marble to a leprous pallour. Like a monstrous 
white headstone it rose, in the moonlight, fascinat- 
ing him, staring at him through the trees ; the 
silence of the cemetery crept into the square when 
the last stroke of midnight floated off into the city, 
and he was alone at his silvered casement with 
the moon and the blank arc-lights and the mon- 
ument of marble — and the dreadful silence. Then 
the tracery of shadows came to lay their shapes 
across his bed; slim patterns of naked twigs, 
shadowed on his wall, stirred when the wind rose ; 


248 


OUTSIDERS. 


fragile branches intermeshed, wonderful as fairy-frost 
crystals enamelled on a wintry pane, etched his low 
ceiling, — and moved, and moved, delicately, ex- 
quisitely interlacing their phantom strands. 

What wonder that the imprint of the pale light, 
the loneliness of midnight, was on his face ! What 
wonder that the shadows fell among the very words 
he wrote, tinging the pages of his Iron City ” 
to a sombre half-tone, through which the reader 
should read fearfully, dreading lest the lurking 
spectre of unshrouded Truth might cry out suddenly 
from some hidden page, finding him unprepared. 

His book had become a fierce slow thing ; he 
brooded among its pages, searching his seared heart 
to wring it dry of truth ; through the glass darkly 
he saw man’s guilt tracing upon a million brows the 
mark of them who destroy souls. 

He wrote of the flesh and blood and iron, of the 
vast altar rusted with its holocaust, — but yet an altar, 
acceptable as a gift to the Most High. 

For there was the solemn vibration of hope 
through it all ; hope was echoed in the clang of iron, 
ringing blow upon blow ; hope tolled through the 
throbbing of the city ; hope trembled among the iron 
masses groaning under the bedded iron of its deep 
foundations. 

The book was the story of one who, like himself, 
had come into his empty heritage, with the blue sky 
over him and the grey sea behind him, and, before 
him, the iron ramparts, rusting in the sun. 

He wrote of the hell of sound ringing, increasing, 


The ANAtOMV OF SUCCESS. ^40 

flung across the arched sky ; he wrote of the sheer 
brick cliffs, the caftons, the slitted clefts, the iron 
crags set with windows; he wrote of the black flood 
pouring through iron ravines, now north, now south. 
And over all, high up among the bright sunbeams 
tipping the crests of iron-shod spires, always flut- 
tered a little flag — a tiny rainbow thing, brilliant in 
the blue well of heaven. 

Again and again his book hung sullenly back, 
inert, insensible ; but he took his theme and held to 
it, setting his teeth as one who strangles a dreadful 
thing seeking to escape into the shadows from 
which it crept. 

He felt that he had no hope for the book — but 
that was untrue, for no man has ever written hope- 
lessly. He expected nothing from men for his 
labour — he dropped his pen at times, cursing them 
for his torture, yet he wrote on. 

When the first grey gleam from the December 
sky stole through the leafless trees outside his win- 
dow, he slept through the morning for the first time 
in many days. It was a wholesome sleep, too ; his 
dream was peaceful, and he awoke from it at peace. 
He had been dreaming of Dulcie, yet he awoke 
without that keen hurt in his heart that had 
dragged line after line through the dark circles 
under his eyes. 

There was a strange tranquillity in his mind, a 
quiet resolution that he scarcely understood. It 
was nothing more than a new form in which hope 
was manifesting itself; he recognised this after 


2S0 


OUTSIDERS. 


a while, yet his buoyancy neither flagged nor 
diminished. 

That strange sensation that comes to all in the 
depths of a stern struggle, that quickening of some 
forgotten fibre that arouses hope once more, had 
come to him. All would be well some day — 
trouble would vanish like a dull shower at sunrise. 

Truly enough, December’s dawn held for him 
more than a blast of icy wind. It held more than 
that for others too, like Ivan Lacroix, and Tessie 
Delmour, and even Violet Highlands. 

There were, in December, three successes made, 
among the outsiders, in New York town, — but Tes- 
sie, perhaps, achieved something higher yet. 

Ivan’s success came first, for his canvas, ‘‘ Isis,” 
set the unclassed agog from the day that the 
Academy opened its dingy storm doors. 

The reticence of the painting, the superb mastery 
of tools, the half-contemptuous exhibition of power, 
apparently scarcely exerted, appalled the younger 
schools and set the knees of the academicians 
a-knocking. 

But, through the blatant chorus of praise, the 
mouthings of toothless criticism, the responsive 
bray of the public stirring in its manger, came the 
clear and unmistakable voice of authority, calling 
the work good. 

Violet’s success came next ; the newspapers had 
found something to talk about and paraphrase and 
cackle over in a book called A Bride’s Tempta- 
tion.” Style was conspicuously absent, which 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 


251 


simplified part of the mystery of its enormous suc- 
cess with the public, its story was so innocently 
naked, so hopelessly archaic, that the critics sus- 
pected a triumph of the pure line ’’ simplicity. 
Many whispered of symbolism somewhere, and 
mooned and maundered among its pages, searching 
for the key to its hidden hieroglyphics. Perhaps 
the book merited attention, for it was really a mira- 
cle of prattle and predestined nonsense, woven into 
a story as artlessly shameless as any cheerful tale 
that whiled away the Thousand And One Nights — 
with detail unexpurged. 

There was no mystery to its success after the 
pulpit attacked it ; and when Mr. Chatterton Mawly 
advertised that fact as widely as possible, legitimate 
criticism threw up its hands and retired. 

The third success came to Oliver Lock ; not all 
at once, for it had been incubating since The 
Winged Boy sailed into view over the literary 
horizon. The Self-Satisfied was a growing suc- 
cess, too genuine to be longer flouted, denied or 
overlooked. One and all the critics began to ac- 
cord the author the honour of their attention ; they 
neither disguised their antagonism nor their ap- 
proval ; they began to squabble, too, and their 
bickering aroused others of their craft. 

Like a chicken who has a morsel too big to swal- 
low, but still a morsel to be investigated at leisure 
and in privacy, the first serious critic rushed off 
with Oliver’s books, squawking his excitement. 
Immediately the other barnyard denizens, pensively 


252 


OUTSIDERS. 


picking on the common dunghill, rushed after him 
who bore the toothsome morsel. The cackling was 
very loud, especially when some critic relinquished 
his grasp of the coveted morsel long enough to 
peck a squawking comrade. 

‘‘ It is a healthy sign for a book,’* said Weyward ; 
when critics fall out authors sometimes come to 
their own.” 

All these things happened in December, and 
this was what December brought to Ivan, to Violet, 
and to Oliver. What it brought to Tessie Delmour 
was more wonderful still. 

Fortune seldom does anything by halves, — 
though often enough in lesser fractions — and the 
end of the first week in December brought Oliver a 
letter from Dulcie Wyvern. 

She was in Florida ; her mother had been very, 
very ill, but was stronger. Why had he not written 
to her? She had waited and waited, hurt by his 
silence. But probably he had forgotten her — she 
knew what a burden she had been. Perhaps he 
might care to know that she was coming to New 
York, later, with her mother. Another thing he 
might care to know, — she was certainly far from 
unhappy. She wished him well, she predicted suc- 
cess and — sent her love to Grippe. 

One other thing ; both he and she had utterly 
misunderstood her mother. She should never, 
never pardon herself for it — never ! 

If Oliver ever wished to write, he must write to 
her care of her mother’s legal adviser. Dyke Van 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 253 

Shuyster, Lotus Beach, The Everglades,*’ Florida. 

And that was all, save a little hurt message of 
adieu. 

Weyward sauntered in an hour later to find 
Oliver in a towering rage, cursing Van Shuyster 
and Klaw and a few others for variety. 

What the mischief is the matter now ? ” asked 
Weyward, serenely stretching out in an armchair to 
light his cigar. 

But Oliver held his peace sullenly, pondering 
over the theft of his letters. He knew it would be 
useless for him to write, that every letter he had 
written had been opened by her mother — perhaps 
by Van Shuyster. 

What they intended to do with the child he 
could not guess, nor how it came about that Van 
Shuyster had bobbed up there in Florida. 

Tired out and perplexed, he leaned his elbows 
on the table, vacant eyes fixed on Weyward. The 
latter was amiably interviewing Grippe, to the 
small dog’s intense satisfaction, for he loved to 
have his ears rubbed, and to have his emotions 
stirred by sympathetic inquiries concerning his 
pedigree. 

Jack Payser, passing the open door, stopped to 
smoke a cigarette with Weyward. 

What a success Ivan is having,” he exclaimed, 
glancing at Oliver’s sombre face. ** He’ll never 
sell that big canvas, I fancy, but the thing has 
brought him the offer to decorate the new state 
Capitol of California.” 


254 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘ Good ! ** said Oliver. “ Is he going to take it ? ** 
Rather! He’s tremendously excited about it ; 
he is in the studio packing up now. By the way, 
that little girl of his will take it hard, I fear.” 

“Tessie?” asked Weyward. 

‘‘Yes; she’s helping him pack now; he starts 
to-night.” 

“ Why doesn’t he take her with him ? ” demanded 
Oliver, looking up sharply. 

‘‘ Because he’s going to live with his people ; 
they’re there in Sacramento. What makes you 
look like that, Oliver? ” 

“ It’s a damned shame ! ” said Oliver ; he has 
no right to leave her like that ! ” 

‘‘As for the right,” observed Weyward, “con- 
sidering where he met her ” 

“Where did he meet her?” asked Jack Payser, 
curiously. 

Weyward did not answer ; Oliver buried his head 
in his hands again ; and Jack shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ Of course he has left her well provided — ” he 
began, but Oliver broke out: “For Heaven’s 
sake. Jack, those details make me sick. The girl 
will break her heart — and that’s the end of such 
things every time ! It’s cruel, it’s beastly, it’s a 
damnable thing, I tell you ! Let me alone.” 

Jack and Weyward exchanged glances ; Oliver 
was plainly very morbid and irritable, so Jack 
strolled out again, whistling, cheerfully, and Wey- 
ward returned to his conversation with Grippe. 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 255 

Presently he said : ‘‘ If you’re in the humour, 

Oliver, Fve something to tell you.” 

What ? ” asked Oliver sulkily. 

Merely that your books are making such a stir 
in town that two first-class publishers want to 
know what you have to offer.” 

Two first-class bandits you mean, don’t you ? ” 

No, these bandits observe the laws as rigidly as 
any respectable business man in the Borough of 
Manhattan.” 

Who are they ? ” 

‘‘One is Playfair, the other is John Stark; the 
former is an old chap, quite the soul of honour, 
but very slow and conservative. John Stark is 
young, a gentleman by birth, scrupulously honour- 
able, and tremendously active. He changes his 
business methods as the times demand ; he is not 
one of those publishers who sit in the sanctified 
circle and nod all day at their own toes. There’s 
no humbug, no pretence, nothing consecrated 
about him. And he wants your work, Oliver.” 

Oliver looked up with a gleam of interest in his 
haggard eyes : “ Are you serious, Weyward ? ” 

“ Perfectly. What have you for the market ? ” 

“ I have ‘ The Iron City,’ — all but two chap- 
ters. I have a romance, and three short stories, 
and ” 

“What else?” 

“ I have fifty cents in my pocket, — that is all.’ 

Somebody knocked at the door, and Weyward 
opened it. Ivan was there, carr3dng a satchel, and 


256 OUTSIDERS, 

beside him Tessie stood, terribly pale, in her black 
hat and fur jacket. 

“ It’s to say good-by,'' he said, holding out his 
hand ; ‘‘ I leave for the Pacific coast to-night." 

Weyward spoke pleasantly, wishing him the suc- 
cess he deserved ; Oliver shook Ivan's hand in 
silence. 

They bring my picture back to the studio to- 
night," said Ivan ; Payser has one key — Tessie has 
the other — if you care to see it again before I send 
it to Paris." 

Weyward thanked him ; there was a silence, then 
Ivan Lacroix laid his hand on Tessie's fur sleeve, 
and they went away quietly together. 

“She \yas white as a ghost," said Weyward, mus- 
ingly ; “ I fancy her colour will improve before he 
reaches the coast. Moi—fai ddja vu ! " 

“ And I — " broke out Oliver, “ I hope I may 
never see that look on a woman's face again ! " 

“Well, well," said Weyward pleasantly, “drop 
the subject — it's painful enough — for I want your 
company as far as the office of Mr. Mawly." 

“ What the devil for ? " asked Oliver astonished. 

“ Why, simply to see what I can do for two young 
idiots whom he has probably swindled." 

“I am one of the idiots," said Oliver, laughing 
outright ; “ who is the other? " 

“The little Highlands girl — you remember her? 
Of course, — you took tea there once in the early days 
when you were a lambkin who never heard of the 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 2$/ 

butcher. Her book is a singularly silly thing — but 
it’s making a fortune for Mawly.” 

Hasn’t he paid her?” 

‘‘Not a penny. Has he ever paid you?” 

“ Not a penny,” said Oliver smiling. 

Weyward nodded. “ I supposed as much. 
Oliver, when I was out of town I travelled farther 
than you knew. For instance, I fancied a trip out 
west might amuse me, and I went — as far as Sioux 
City.” 

Oliver became interested. 

“ Oh, it was very amusing, I assure you. I looked 
up Mawly’s place there — a little dark room in a 
frame building. I found ‘our’ Mr. Welcher too — 
and I took the liberty of examining his books — in 
your name.” 

He lighted a second cigar, laughing easily over 
his reminiscences of his interview with Mr. Welcher 
of Sioux City. 

“ You may not know, Oliver, that I’m more or less 
of an expert with books. Besides, I had affidavits 
in my pocket from various book-sellers, touching on 
their sales of your two books and also of Violet 
Highlands’ story. Now I am prepared to swear 
out a warrant for the arrest of our benevolent friend 
Mawly — unless he happens to agree with me that 
stealing is naughty.” 

“ So,” said Oliver at last, “ the fellow is a 
swindler ! ” 

“ Rather in that line, I fancy. Shall we stroll 
around to Union Square ? ” 


258 


OUTSIDERS. 


Oliver was ready in an instant. Weyward picked 
up his gloves and stick, and they descended the stairs 
in silence. 

It was a ten minutes’ easy walk to the publishing 
house of Mawly. Neither spoke until they reached 
the building. Here Weyward opened his watch, 
compared it with Oliver’s, and said ; Come up in 
half an hour, Oliver ; I want to see Mawly alone 
first.” 

When the last minute of the half-hour had ticked 
its life away, Oliver sprang up the stairway and en- 
tered the office without ceremony. 

Mr. Mawly was seated at his desk; Weyward oc- 
cupied a chair by the window, tapping with his thorn 
stick on the bare boards of the floor. 

‘‘ Oh,” sneered Mawly, wheeling around as Oliver 
entered, ‘‘ so this begins to savour of conspiracy — ” 
Stop ! ” said Weyward sharply ; if you are im- 
pudent to me, you scented cad. I’ll lay my black- 
thorn across your back ! ” Then, turning pleasantly 
to Oliver ; “ My dear fellow, Mr. Mawly has con- 

sidered the question from all its points. He de- 
cides, I believe, that he owes you a great deal more 
than money can repay ; but you will not care for an 
apology from a cad, so he merely returns your books, 
plates, copyright, and this check, to you. You 
need not thank him ; nor need I,” he continued ris- 
ing ; “ but we can take our leave with the full ex- 
pectation that the State will ultimately provide a 
more limited field of activity for this philanthropic 
financier.” 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 259 

Oliver glanced at the flat, boneless face, the pol- 
ished eyes of green agate, the pink-barred shirt and 
the jewel, then turned on his heel, following Wey- 
ward down the stairs and out into Union Square. 

‘‘ I have Violet’s check and copyright transfer in 
my pocket,” said Weyward. '‘Shall we call on 
her?” 

“ Weyward,” said Oliver, " you are the best fel- 
low in the world — and — I can’t say more.” 

" I don’t know,” replied Weyward, sarcastically; 
" you might imitate my morals, if your flattery is 
sincere.” 

" It’s not my business to shy at your morals,” 
replied Oliver ; " you’re a better man with them 
than I am without them.” 

"What a boyish man you are !” said Weyward, 
glancing at Oliver with kindly malice. 

Then he began to laugh, adding : " I didn’t tell 
you whom I found up there closeted with 
Mawly. Fancy ! The Pink Rat is in Mawly’s 
clutches, — Sidney Jaune gave him a book to pub- 
lish and now he’s trying to get a few dollars out of 
that benevolent bandit. I heard him trying to 
bluster and threaten the suave Chatterton, but it 
was no go, Oliver. Poor devil — I’m sorry for him 
all the same.” 

They boarded a north-bound cable-car on Broad- 
way. Weyward never ceased his amiable chatter, 
and Oliver, with a check in his pocket and his books 
in his own possession again, was only too happy to 
listen. 


26 o 


OUTSIDERS. 


“Violet’s check is twenty times as big as yours,” 
said Weyward ; “ I won’t tell you what it is — that 
would not be fair — but, my son, you see what the 
reward of true literary distinction is. Style, Oliver, 
style is what the public longs for. But they get 
more than that in Violet’s little book.” 

“Where does she live?” asked Oliver, as they 
left the car close to the wintry park. 

“ Now I’ll tell you where she expects to live,” 
said Weyward, pointing to a house of brown-stone 
that stood wedged in among its fellows, glittering 
with plate glass, bronze railings, and a newly pol- 
ished storm-door. “ That’s where the little girl 
is being forced,” he continued grimly, — “ partly 
through her native silliness, partly because she’s 
come to the end of her money.” 

“ What sort of a house is it ? ” asked Oliver. 

“ An empty house — now, but redecorated and 
refurnished. A brougham goes with it.” 

“ Somebody has offered it to that child ? ” asked 
Oliver angrily. 

“Yes. She hasn’t accepted, but things are com- 
bining to land her behind those plate-glass windows. 
Then, too. Salmi Cheedle is such a kind gentleman,” 
he ended with a sneer. 

“ Where does Violet live now ? ” asked Oliver. 

“ Here,” replied Weyward, mounting the two 
brown-stone steps that led to the vestibule of a 
great red-brick apartment house. 

The wall of the vestibule was covered with letter- 
boxes, under which were electric buttons and cards 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 261 

bearing the names of the tenants, Miss De Mont- 
morency, Miss Gwendoline Elsmere, Miss Arbutus 
Van Rensselaer, Miss Inez d'Orleans, and many 
more names hiding coyly behind undisguised titles, 
which would certainly have interested most of the 
courts of Europe as well as the Caf6 de Paris. 

At the head of the stairs a door stood partly ajar ; 
they knocked ; Violet opened it. 

Before she could speak, Mazie McNair appeared 
behind her, sleeves rolled up, laughing over her 
shoulder and bidding Weyward and Oliver welcome. 

Sylvia is here ; we're having the best time mak- 
ing creamed woodcock in the chafing dish," she 
chattered, as the young men entered and greeted 
Sylvia Tring, who bobbed her head. 

'' Oh, you mustn't touch that sherry ! " cried Vio- 
let as Weyward helped himself ; ‘‘ it's for something 
else ; we're going to make sherry-cobblers in two or 
three minutes." 

Isn't it just horrid," said Mazie to Oliver; ‘‘Vio- 
let's got to move because that miserable Mawly 
won't pay her one penny. I tell her that I'd have 
him arrested — indeed I would, Mr. Lock ! " and 
she looked very determined and waved her bare 
arms over which a little flour had dusted. 

“ You seem to be doing fairly well as far as lunch- 
eon is concerned," said Oliver. 

Weyward was standing over by the window, 
talking to Violet in a low voice. Presently he led 
her into the adjoining room, closing the door with- 
out excuse to the others. 


262 


OUTSIDERS. 


Dear me ! said Sylvia with eyes wide open. 
“ I believe Fd rather like to hear those secrets ; 
wouldn’t you, Mazie?” 

“There’s no secret,” said Oliver; “ Weyward has 
taken Violet’s book away from the fellow, Mawly, 
and has brought her what Mawly owed her.” 

At that moment Weyward and Violet returned, 
the latter crying and laughing at the same time and 
holding out her check to Sylvia. 

“ She’s all right now,” said Weyward sharply, 
“ provided she goes home with her check. Other- 
wise it will land her in worse clutches than 
Cheedle’s!” 

He spoke with a frank brutality that made Vio- 
let’s cheeks flame, but he knew his business and 
went about it without mercy. 

“ She’s a child,” he said, turning to Mazie, “ and 
she has nobody here but you and Sylvia and what 
acquaintances she scrapes up at that doddering old 
caterwauler’s — Signor Ditti’s. Tell her that she 
ought to return to her parents ; there’s time for her 
to come here later. There’s always room for one 
more among the unclassed, and no outsider need 
knock long to be admitted inside the outside zone 
of society.” 

As Weyward reached the street a few moments 
later he said ; “ Was it not edifying to observe me 

inculcating morals? ” 

“You have a right to if anybody has,” replied 
Oliver. 


THE ANATOMY OF SUCCESS. 


263 


“ But think of my collection of slippers.*' 

“ If you had collected as many entire wardrobes 
you are still a better man than I,** said Oliver with 
a harsh laugh. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


MEN — AND A WOMAN. 

Being an instructive view of man's pleasure^ and affording 
a glimpse of a woman who was tired of both man 
and his pleasures. 

‘‘There are/' said Weyward, “ three important 
literary clubs in the Borough of Manhattan, — I am 
not of course including any society composed of 
women with three names " 

“ You're not obliged to mention women at all, 
you know," replied Oliver, buttoning his collar be- 
fore the cracked mirror in his room. 

“Right," said Weyward amiably ; “I'll reserve 
my hydra-headed homage for married cynics. I 
started to tell you about the Scribblers " 

He lay in the arm chair by the window, watch- 
ing Oliver invest himself with his long-unused eve- 
ning dress and white tie. 

“ Go ahead," said Oliver, struggling with his 
collar. 

“ The Authors' Club and the Pen-and-ink Club 
are exclusive, but the ‘ Scribblers ' is not. I’m a 
member. That is where we are going to-night. 
Are you nervous ? " 


MEN — AND A WOMAN. 


265 


‘‘ Are you a member ? inquired Oliver, turning 
around with both ends of his necktie in his fingers. 

'‘Yes,’* replied Weyward with the trace of a grin. 

“Are you an author?” 

“ I am the author of a pamphlet on bath-tubs — 
let me send you an autograph copy ” 

“You’re not serious?” 

“ Indeed I am. My pamphlet made me eligible 
to help them pay their rent ; and I’m doing it.” 

Oliver resumed his toilet with a blank face, which 
delighted Weyward. 

“ Oh, I don’t know why you authors should be so 
intolerant,” he said ; “ there have been good stories 
in bath-tubs since Dorothea twiddled her toes in 
the brook and Susan used Prayers Soap, and Diana 
set the dog an Acteon ” 

“ Bosh,” said Oliver, buttoning his white waist- 
coat. 

But Weyward was not joking ; authors had 
climbed into the famous Scribblers’ Club on ladders 
of fame composed of flimsier material than Wey- 
ward’s pamphlet on bath-tubs. For the club itself 
he cared nothing ; it was the perverse irony in his 
nature that had led him to present himself as a can- 
didate for palms ; nor did it surprise this cynic to 
be received among the writers of the age for the 
sum of one hundred dollars fees and seventy-five 
dollars yearly dues. 

“ However,” said Weyward, picking up his hat 
and gloves, “ the club is right in making my pamph- 
let an excuse for my election. The dreary brother- 


266 


OUTSIDERS. 


hood of those who produce books needs the 
irreverent leavening of those whom books produce. 

Besides, Fve sold them three bath-tubs, Oliver ” 

Come on,'' said Oliver, turning the gas lower 
and following Weyward into the hall. 

As they passed Ivan's studio, Weyward noticed 
a ray of light streaming into the hallway from the 
transom. 

‘‘ It's Jack Payser, I fancy," he remarked. 

‘‘ Probably ; Ivan's picture arrived this evening." 

Oliver moved aside and tried the handle of the 
door. It turned and the door opened. 

The great picture hung from its pulleys in the 
centre of the studio ; before it sat a young girl in 
furs. Oliver did not speak; Weyward stepped to 
his side cautiously, and together they stood gazing 
at the motionless figure before the canvas. 

An hour later, as they were approaching the club- 
house through the first young snow storm of the 
year, Weyward said : It is well to have lived if 
one can leave such an achievement behind." 

“ Which achievement ? " said Oliver harshly ; 
‘‘the painted picture, or that woman in agony at 
its feet ? " 

They had already entered the portal through the 
flying snow, so Weyward held his peace. 

The Scribblers were indulging in a reception to 
their friends, — a harmless pastime, recommended 
to all who lack mental resources. 

The club-rooms were crowded with the bright 
toilets of women; the sombre evening dress of the 


MEN — AND A WOMAN. 


267 


men loomed out in gloomy contrast to the ivory 
and gold of wall and furniture, and the pale, gilt 
tapestry, shimmering under the clustered candles’ 
glow. Through the vista of beautiful rooms the 
white covers of tables set with silver glimmered in 
perspective. 

Weyward said: “This is a free-and-easy joint; 
let’s dig hope out of a pate before we go among the 
elect for other nourishment.” 

Oliver was hungry enough to feel a modesty in 
such an unheralded assault on the tables, but he 
soon found that even genius on exhibition satisfied 
its material appetite before it pitched into the 
mental and spirituelle banquet. 

“I know them,” observed Weyward; “there 
won’t be an olive left in an hour. You talked so 
much at dinner that I forgot to eat — there’s a bald 
compliment for you, my friend ! ” 

He balanced a glass of champagne and surveyed 
the scene cheerfully, advising Oliver to waste no 
time. 

“ Food for thought washed down with mental 
stimulants to be digested by discussion is a banquet 
that never yet attracted an empty stomach,” said 
Weyward. “ My heavens ! What a barnyard 
scene this would make ! ” he added, as a little fam- 
ished man, with a glittering bald head, stole the lob- 
ster under his very nose. 

“That,” he said, “ was clever, even for a genius,” 
as Oliver watched the little bald man attack the 
lobster with knife and fork. 


268 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘'That is Joblotte, the classic poet of passion,” 
said Weyward; “he’s probably dreaming he’s 
crowned with roses and stuffing Lucrine oysters at 
Domitian’s feast ; and that you and I are dancing- 
girls ” 

“ Nonsense,” said Oliver ; “ authors are not ac- 
tors.” 

“Aren’t they, though!” said Weyward; “an 
actor is always an actor whether on or off the stage, 
but an author imagines everybody is part of a 
drama in which he is cast for the star part.” 

“Oh, Weyward! Weyward! stop your eternal 
nonsense,” said Oliver, finishing his claret and 
edging away from the table. 

Many people came up to speak to Weyward, and 
the majority of them appeared to be considerably 
interested when Oliver’s name was mentioned. As 
for Oliver, he began to be genuinely surprised at 
finding that not only were his books perfectly 
familiar to all these people, but that he, himself, 
appeared to excite their interest and curiosity. 

Marc Zisco, the famous playright and critic, a 
little man, mostly nose, who continually rubbed 
his hands together and peered at anybody but the 
person with whom he conversed, said that he was 
very glad to meet Oliver, that he had read his 
books, and would like to know what Oliver thought 
of them. 

“What I think of my own books ?” repeated 
Oliver sharply, remembering Zisco’s nasty remark 
concerning them. 


MEN— AND A WOMAN. 


269 


But he did not snub Marc Zisco, for the little 
fellow looked as though he had seen hard times 
in the Ghetto, before he found a living in peddling 
epigrams to the Gentile. 

I think my books are worth criticising,'' said 
Oliver without too much malice. 

How can you expect criticism when nobody but 
critics criticise ?" asked Zisco, displaying his wares 
with the naive instinct of his race. 

Are the critics blind? " asked Oliver smiling. 

Blinder than the sightless, for even the sightless 
have their point of view and see their disadvantages." 

Two epigrams were all Marc Zisco ever gave for 
the price of one man’s attention ; so he betook him- 
self and his wares elsewhere, and Weyward and 
Oliver joined a group of men who were listening to 
that brilliant musical critic, Gerald Rix. 

Rix's audience had keyed him to a pitch which 
only he could sustain ; there were, among those who 
surrounded him, such men as Gisborn, tall, with keen 
blue eyes, and a simplicity of presence that does 
not always accompany the adored of women ; 
then there was Winslow Vance, forever breaking 
his free-lance against saw-mills where good men 
practised rolling logs, and whose exquisite transla- 
tions of Verlaine rivalled the originals ; then there 
was Helm, the veteran musical critic, and Tenterdon, 
his confrere, who thought noble thoughts and — 
transcribed them in vitriol sometimes ; and there 
was Richmond, master of style, and the most bril- 
liant living American writer of short stories ; and 


2/0 


OUTSIDERS. 


there was Klepman, with his profile of a decadent 
Roman Emperor and his marvellous gifts and his 
frightful cynicism, — truly here was an audience to 
keep Gerald Rix to his pitch. 

And he kept it. Oliver, too, fell under the spell, 
and Wey ward stood beside, twisting his short yellow 
moustache and not losing a word. 

One by one Oliver was presented to all these men, 
keen, uncompromising fellows who grasped his hand 
heartily and bade him and his books welcome. 

“ I don’t know how it is,” he said to Weyward, 
“ but they all seem to have read my books.” 

‘‘ My dear fellow, it is fame that you’re up against,” 
said Weyward ; your troubles are beginning. 
Cheer up ! The worst is yet to come.” 

It came. A lady with short hair who had been 
breathing down his neck, asked Weyward to present 
Oliver, and Oliver learned that he was facing the 
famous Miss Evelina Ballington Bogle, editor of the 
Iron Quill, 

At first he thought she was a man, but her skirts 
betrayed her. She was short haired, stout, gnarled, 
with a heavy face and blunt fingers. Cold stupidity 
was stamped on every feature of her face ; there 
was malevolence in her eye, too. 

“You write?” she asked with the insolence of 
the unclassed. 

“Yes,” replied Oliver pleasantly ; “ do you ?” 

Later Weyward remonstrated with him, chuckling 
as he did so : 

“ Why, man alive, she’ll slaughter you for that ! ” 


MEN — AND A WOMAN. 


271 


But Oliver only scowled in reply : 

Fm tired of this/' he said ; ‘‘I never was made 

to be bullied by your women with three names, 
nor to be pawed by professional adorers, male or 
female. Let's go, Weyward, — or let us talk to 
Rix's crowd " 

‘‘ Pooh," said Weyward ; there's material in all 
this, Oliver. Keep your eyes open ; you won't find 
another barnyard like this." 

So Oliver met more three-named ladies, ladies with 
missions, ladies who had no use for side-combs, 
hydra-named ladies, ladies with pretty eyes and re- 
ceptive minds, ladies who desired to inform them- 
selves, ladies who lisped things that might mean two 
things, ladies who skirted the edges of decency with 
epigrams treasured for this evening only 

And the men! He met Judge Bogle, whose 
face, in repose, was the most expressionless gargoyle 
he had ever beheld ; he met Jonas Tabb, who once 
wrote a poem and was now nearing his sixtieth year 
without a repetition of the offense ; he met William 
Henry Craw, the handsomest novelist in the United 
States ; he met J. Pidley-Peeters, playright, and ex- 
cavator of forgotten plays. 

All these he met and wondered how they knew 
who he was. 

‘‘Fame, my friend," said Weyward's caustic voice 
beside his ear ; “ the patronage of fame by fame is 
toothsome to the famous." 

Then, to his amazement and displeasure. Salmi 
Cheedle, the publisher, fairly fell on his neck, greet- 


2/2 


OUTSIDERS. 


ing him with a fervour that made him ashamed of 
the human race. 

‘‘You had little use for me and my books when I 
was close to starvation/’ said Oliver. 

And again Weyward took him to task, later: 

“ Don’t talk like that,” he said ; “ do you want the 
whole publishing guild down on you ?” 

“Damn the guild ! ” said Oliver shortly. But 
there was no use damning it ; it would not be exor- 
cised ; for, in turn, almost every publisher who had 
snubbed him, came to say something agree- 
able. Seeley Fleeter, of Skipp, Fleeter and Com- 
pany, tried to drag him into a corner to talk business, 
but old Weems got him away from Fleeter only to 
be deprived of Oliver, in his turn, by ponderous 
Mrs. Wattleby of the Daily Cornet^ who wished to 
know what hidden meaning lurked in page i6i of 
“The Self-Satisfied.” 

Weyward rescued him from that mountain of 
jellified erudition, and led him upstairs into a 
smoking-room where a handsome, clear-skinned 
young fellow was starting to punish a cocktail. 

“ Hello, Jack ! ” said Weyward; “I have been 
looking all over the barnyard for you.” 

The young man set down his cocktail, untasted, 
and rose to give Oliver a firm, cool hand. 

“I wanted you,” said Weyward frankly, “to 
talk shop. You don’t mind. Stark, do you ?” 

“ Not if Mr. Lock does not object,” said John 
Stark laughing; “I want to publish Mr. Lock’s 
next book and I don’t object to saying so at once.'* 


MEN— AND A WOMAN. 


273 


By the way/* said Wayward with a significant 
smile, “ Lock’s two books — which Mawly had, you 
know, — are on the market, too.** 

Stark nodded, then sat down to give Oliver his 
undivided attention ; and Weyward sauntered off 
into the billiard-room. 

As he started to enter the billiard-hall Sidney 
Jaune came out of the swinging doors. 

How are you, Weyward,*’ he said familiarly ; 

you ought to have heard the row between 
Hawksby and Bilkerson over which should have 
my next book, ‘ The Nude in a Nut Shell.* ” 

Nasty title. I’m sure,** observed Weyward. 

The Pmk Rat, somewhat crest-fallen, explained 
that the title was only to make the book more sale- 
able, and that it was not an indecent book, adding, 
with a complacent smirk, that Hawksby and Bilker- 
son were threatening law-suits and retaliations of a 
most alarming nature. 

‘^When publishers fall out authors usually pay 
the piper,** said Weyward. ‘‘ How did you get on 
with Mawly this morning ? ** 

Sidney Jaune swore horribly at the mention of 
Mr. Mawly *s name, promising to crucify him in the 
next number of The Pink Rat, a remark that dis- 
gusted Weyward. 

‘Wour race were given to crucifixions, I believe,** 
said Weyward, “ but, if I recollect, it was not Bar- 
rabas who suffered.** 

Then he turned on his heel and entered the 
billiard-hall. 


274 


OUTSIDERS. 


Only one table was lighted up, and that was at 
the further end of the hall. The rest of the rooms 
were dark and chilly, and Weyward strolled toward 
the three men who were solemnly executing simple 
carrom shots in a four-ball game. 

The three men were Dawson, Rogueby and Mag- 
nelius Klaw. Divested of his coat, Magnelius, from 
his waist down, resembled the hind-quarters of an 
elephant, Dawson also presented pachydermic phe- 
nomena, and little Rogueby’s similarity to a baby 
elephant would have been ludicrous had it not 
been slightly unpleasant. 

As they, in turn, drove the ivory balls into the 
cushions with a labourious attention to the game 
that amused Weyward, Rogueby caught sight of 
him, standing in the shadow behind the table, and 
began to exhibit symptoms of excitement which 
puzzled Weyward. 

Good-evening,” he said tranquilly. ‘‘ I hope I do 
not disturb your game, Mr. Klaw.” 

He had always been on perfectly pleasant terms 
with the Klaw brothers, and the black scowl that 
little Rogueby gave him astonished him. His 
amazement increased when Dawson Klaw, in his 
shirt sleeves, shook his soft fat fist at him and burst 
into a torrent of abuse, while Magnelius solemnly 
waved his cue in the air like a fat Mephisto summon- 
ing his legions from the nether world under the 
billiard table. 

‘‘You and your friend Oliver Lock had better 


MEN — AND A WOMAN. 275 

lock out ! '' snarled Dawson Klaw. There’s a law 
for conspiracy, I believe.” 

‘‘ Aha ! ” thundered Magnelius majestically, while 
little Rogueby smirked and chalked his cue in fury. 

‘‘ May I suggest,” said Weyward, with a long 
stare at Dawson, ‘‘ that you offer a reward for the 
recovery of your senses ? ” 

As he spoke, Oliver entered the room and came 
toward him, not recognising the Klaw family from 
the distance. 

‘‘There he is now!” squealed little Rogueby, 
hurling his chalk madly to the floor and dancing on 
the fragments. 

The sight of Oliver appeared to infuriate Dawson, 
while brother Magnelius trumpeted “aha!” like a 
bull-elephant at bay. 

“ What's the matter with that foolish old man? ” 
said Weyward, turning to meet Oliver. And Oliver 
himself did not know at first. Gradually, however, 
as he stared at the enraged brothers and listened to 
their accusations, the situation dawned on him in 
all its grotesqueness. 

Indeed it was a viciously bizarre condition of 
affairs; the disreputable lawyer. Dyke Van Shuy- 
ster, had brought suit for fearfully heavy damages 
against Dawson Klaw in the name of his new client, 
Mrs. Wyvern. 

Breach of promise was the charge, palpably a 
conspiracy between the woman and her attorney to 
blackmail that respectable gentleman, DawsonKlaw. 

The bringing of such a case to trial meant a 


276 


OUTSIDERS, 


scandal calculated to upheave the metropolis and 
work incalculable damage to the house of Klaw 
Brothers ; and Oliver ceased to wonder why little 
Rogueby danced on the chalk, or why Magnelius 
bellowed like a whole herd of elephants. 

“ If,*' said Weyward with narrowing eyes, ‘‘ you 
suppose that either I or Mr. Lock instigated such 
a thing, I shall take pleasure in posting you as unfit 
for this or any other club.” 

He flung a handful of billiard chalk straight into 
the open mouth of Magnelius, and walked away 
with Oliver. 

‘‘What on earth,” said Weyward, “do those 
fools mean by accusing us? ” It was the first time 
Oliver had ever seen Weyward very angry. He 
told him all he knew of the case, standing on the 
stairs to avoid the crush below. And then he 
spoke of Dulcie, hesitating, soberly guarded in 
what he said : 

“ This thing — this suit would kill her. Can’t you 
stop it, Weyward? You know enough to disbar 
this fellow Van Shuyster.” 

Weyward shrugged his shoulders. 

“Very well,” said Oliver, quietly ; “then I shall 
look for her until I find her ” 

“ And — if you find her ? ” asked Weyward. 

Oliver knew what he meant. The angry colour 
slowly stained his face and his lips began to tighten 
again. 

“ Do you suspect my motive ? ” he said with an 
ugly look. 


MEN — AND A WOMAN. 2// 

‘‘Do you suspect it yourself, Oliver?'' replied 
Weyward pleasantly. 

Oliver looked at him in sullen silence. Wey- 
ward’s eyes were kind but keen as daggers; he 
waited, a half smile on his lips, for Oliver's answer ; 
then added : “ Don't look her up ; I fancy I can 
manage the affair to your satisfaction." 

Below them the murmur and movement of the 
thronged rooms rose with a rushing sound to the 
dim stairway where they were standing. Once 
Oliver imagined he heard his own name pronounced 
and repeated in the tumult, but he would not have 
heeded it had not Weyward bent his head to listen, 

“Somebody is asking for you," he said, and, 
again ; “ Oliver, they say that somebody wants you 
at the telephone ! " 

Together they descended the stairs, turned, 
Weyward leading, and passed through the bar- 
room under the second stairs to the telephone box. 
The servant in charge opened the door, saying that 
Mr. Payser wished to speak to Mr. Lock, and 
Oliver entered the box, picked up the receiver, sat 
down on the stool, and said ; “ Hello, Jack, what's 
up ? " 

Presently he came out of the box with a puzzled 
face and walked over to Weyward, who had im- 
proved the opportunity for a night-cap at the bar. 

“It's Jack Payser; he says I am to come to the 
Monastery at once, but he refuses to say why. I 
promised I would. Will you come?" 

“Certainly," said Weyward, setting down his 


2/8 


OUTSIDERS. 


glass ; Jack Payser wouldn’t disturb us here unless 
we were needed.” 

They ordered a cab at the cloak-room ; it arrived 
before they had their coats buttoned, and Weyward 
led the way out into the heavily falling snow. 

The summons seemed to oppress Oliver ; Wey- 
ward gave up conversation after a while and 
lighted his cigar with cheerfulness unimpaired. 

They drove straight down the splendid white 
avenue, set with its thousand arc-lights. The 
silent stepping of the horse over the snow, the 
noiseless revolution of the wheels, the million white 
flakes falling from the black void overhead, soothed 
Weyward, and he smoked tranquilly, one arm in 
the tasselled sling, watching the first storm of the 
dying year. 

But Oliver, when at length they drew up before the 
Monastery, could scarcely find his key for ner- 
vousness, and it was Weyward who opened the storm- 
doors and unlocked the freezing portals within. 

On the top landing Payser stood with a candle, 
and something in his face sent the chilled blood 
into Oliver’s heart. 

What is it ? ” he whispered, not daring to speak 
aloud. 

The door of Ivan’s studio was ajar, but no light 
streamed through the transom. 

It — it’s in there,” motioned Payser. 

Oliver took the candle from his hand and stepped 
hastily into the dark doorway. Weyward followed, 
shading his eyes. 


MEN— AND A WOMAN. 


279 


At first they saw nothing but the vast bulk of the 
picture, looming up, half lighted by the flaring 
candle. Then Oliver lowered the light. Ah ! there 
it was — there on the floor at the picture's feet — 
that dusty black skirt and fur jacket — and one 
white hand outstretched, still clenching a tiny 
weapon shining brilliantly under the candle’s steady 
flame. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


HIS HERITAGE. 

In which Oliver appropriates everything in view ana 
out of view, 

Dulcie wrote one more letter, a violent little 
note ending in a small hurricane of contempt for 
his discourtesy and indifference. 

There is only one violent passion that man for- 
gives in woman, and that is love ; there are none 
that she will not forgive in him. 

Christmas had come to New York in a blizzard, 
piling the avenues* northern sidewalks waist-high 
with drifts, choking the cross streets through which 
steaming horses floundered in a flurry of powdered 
snow. All day long the discordant scrape of snow- 
shovels sounded through Washington Square, 
echoed and re-echoed from cross*street, alley and 
mews ; all day long the light snow sifted down 
from the dappled limbs of the trees, or blew in long 
streamers from the roof-tops, fine and white as 
wind-whirled smoke. The park benches were 
turned to alabaster thrones, the marble arch loomed 
like a pearl cliff in the stretch of dazzling white, 
the fountain, crusted with crystal, grotesquely snow 
embossed, was all alive with hovering grey wings 


His Heritage. 


281 


where the sparrows gathered at daylight, flock after 
flock, waiting for the sun to melt their drinking 
water from the spotless drifts choking the southern 
parapets. 

Somewhere in the streets boys were calling an 
‘'Extra '' ; the chiming sleigh-bells’ thin, sweet har- 
mony floated into the square from the noble avenue, 
as the sun gilded the waters of the bay and stained 
the spotless stole of the city with faintest rose. 
Then topaz lights came stealing over the snow, and 
the shadows changed from grey to violet, fading 
to translucent turquoise as the sun flashed up over 
the North River, setting the Jerseys in a white 
blaze from the Hook to the Palisades. 

On the fitful wind came the hollow voice of an 
ocean steamer, the treble warning of tugs and pack- 
ets outward bound, fainter now, now lost amid the 
humming rumours from the rivers where the steam- 
whistles gossiped, speaking together under a sky 
of deepest royal blue, shot with snowy jets of 
vapour. 

The thousand flags that dipped their gemmed 
beauty in the sun rippled straight and free as the 
bay-wind rose and swept far seaward where acres of 
tossing white flecked the azure wastes, stretching 
to meet the waste of azure overhead. 

From the Spitting Devil to Hell Gate, from Owl 
Head to the Bronx, the air was tinctured with the 
harmony of bells, — bells tumbling aloft in belfrys 
white with ice, bells sounding along the docks, brass 
bells striking frpm white pilot-decks, bells tinkling 


282 


OUTSIDERS. 


through sleigh-tracked streets, round steel bells 
clanging from the snow-bound electric cars, stalled 
in endless lines. Even the hoarse voices of the men 
crying their ‘‘ Extras,” bore the intonation of deep 
bells. 

Christmas brought its white blessing, disguised 
or undisguised, to all ; Oliver awoke with fame 
tugging at the sheets, his letter crumpled in his 
hand ; and he knew that poverty had passed away 
and doubt had vanished in the Christmas dawn. 
Weyward opened his eyes, then closed them. 
The prospect sweetened his returning slumber ; 
for he expected two visitors for Christmas. Jack 
Payser greeted the morning behind a barricade of 
chips at John Daly's Temple of Hermes; Dick 
Trivol, lying on his back in bed, hesitated how to 
squander the proceeds of an unexpected check from 
one of the turtle-fed patrons of his easel ; Ivan, in 
Los Angeles, dreamed under a rose trellis, intoxi- 
cated with life and youth and the scented bays of 
victory ; — and Tessie dreamed under the white drifts 
beside the eastern ocean, whiter than the pall the 
snow had spread above her narrow bed, her lover’s 
picture on her breast. 

So, disguised or undisguised, the Christmas bless- 
ing fell on all ; — and on Dulcie Wyvern, too, if she 
had only known it. 

But the ice-coated train that the heavy engine 
dragged through the flat, snow-packed Jerseys 
carried Dulcie northward against her will ; for the 
city had grown horrible to her, since he had forgot- 


HIS HERITAGE. 


283 


ten. She lay shivering in her berth, heart-sore, 
hopeless, desolate, with the northern chill in her 
heart, and the scent of the southern orange groves 
still clinging to her hair. 

The day was magnificent, the sky blue as an ice- 
berg, the sun a blinding blot, ringed with pale 
fierce flame that played like the splash of molten 
gold over the frozen world. 

Oliver awoke with the beauty and love of all 
things in his heart — the love of this sun-gemmed 
land, of the iron city, frost-plated, inlaid and 
enamelled with crystals ; — and he saw the tracery 
of snowy branches in the square, and the bright 
flags in the sun-drenched sky. The love of all things 
was in his heart ; the beauty of his city, of this fair 
free heritage, was upon him. The voices from the 
rivers called to him, the snow-bells’ symphony 
chimed sweet invitation ; a sparrow dropped from 
the azure to his window-ledge : twittering of free- 
dom and careless faith in the goodness of a Heaven 
which had cast forth its snow to cover a small bird’s 
daily bread. 

When he went out into the white glare of the 
square, the sun wove an iridescent veil over the ice- 
sheathed twigs, spreading a faint rainbow radiance 
across the snow below, where the laced frost em- 
bossed soft crystalline drifts with traceries of palest 
amethyst. Frail shadows lay across the soft white 
mounds ; the button-balls on the sycamores hung 
and swung like crystal pendants under silver-frosted 
candelabra ; the marble arch dripped from its icy 


284 


OUTSIDERS. 


gargoyles, and every slender snow-stalactite shed 
single liquid gems, dropping silently through palest 
sunshine. 

Into the snow-bound side street he wandered, to 
the city’s artery, where the tide of life set sluggishly 
southward through a cafion of discoloured snow. 

Men were working everywhere, heaping the snow 
into pyramids, between which the cable-cars passed 
slowly, striking their brass bells, and the great 
commercial channel echoed with the rumble of 
short, heavy carts, loaded with snow. But the iron 
cliffs and window-pierced ledges of brick were 
silent ; steel shutters sealed the windows, vast iron 
aprons concealed the portals, the blank curtains 
were drawn across the acres of plate glass, and the 
rolling grilles were padlocked. 

Clustered flags brightened each sheer height, 
brilliant as flower-crowned crags, and the strip of 
blue above, between the edges of the precipice, 
flowed like a heavenly river winding through the 
sky. 

There was little wind in the depths of the street 
although the banners in the sky rippled in every 
fold ; and, walking oa through the snow, he felt the 
cold softening in the sunlight. A man offered him 
an Extra,” muttering of a ‘‘ terrible accident ” and 
‘‘ loss o’ life,” but he shook his head. 

Vapour rose from the square where the stained 
marble facade of the City Hall glowed in the sun. 
He crossed the car-tracks by the bronze martyr 
on his pedestal, skirted the red and grey heights 


HIS HERITAGE. 


285 


to the south and east, setting his face toward that 
disjointed structure of steel that marks the terminal 
moraine of the great bridge. Here boys shouted 
more ‘‘ Extras about an accident on the Jersey 
Meadows. Oliver pushed through the crowd and 
mounted the stairs. 

An icy wind was blowing up the river when, at 
last, he stood under the northern tower and felt 
the quiver of the suspended mass of steel beneath 
his feet. 

Under him a great ship with topmasts housed 
followed a hissing tugboat toward the sea, and, in 
the brilliant wake, a gull drifted, white wings slowly 
beating. 

Southward where the Owl’s Head hid the Nar- 
rows, he could see the Lower Bay and the sun on 
ships at sea ; and he thought of his home-coming 
through the June fog, and his first glimpse of the 
bronze colossus which had been to him the angel 
with the flaming sword. There she towered, torch 
uplifted, metal mantle swept by the Arctic wind, 
crowned with a glory from her spikes of bronze. 
Under her lifted arm he had found liberty and 
bread — more than she promised after all. Aye, 
more than she gave to all who passed the seas 
that wash her scandaled feet, — he had found his 
heritage, and had come into it through bitter paths. 

His heritage? There it lay in white and gold, 
five royal Boroughs, Richmond, Brooklyn, Queens, 
’Manhattan, and the Bronx, — all his, for the love he 
bore them, for his pleasure, for his fortune, for the 


286 


OUTSIDERS. 


delight of his eyes. To weave his tales from the' 
threads of the city’s life was his right and his happi- 
ness, to prophesy belonged to him, to raise his voice 
for the iron city, to chide, to rejoice with it, to 
sorrow when it sorrowed, was his, too, and he knew 
it. He would interpret its reason for existence, he 
would translate the splendour of its purpose, he 
would make a language to spread the gospel graven 
on this iron altar of the world. 

As his eyes swept the horizon, studying the gos- 
pel he should preach, the magnitude of the mystery 
increased, appalling him. How should he tell the 
story of a city, scarcely emerging from the chaos 
which was one day to bring it forth ? That thin, 
unsightly skin of iron, that flimsy covering of 
brick and stone, those sham walls unsupported by 
foundations were as temporary, as insignificant as 
the first moulting skin of an insect embryo. What 
was there to seize on? Nothing in that twisted 
iron tangle was permanent, nothing was typical 
save the sky that lighted it. The absence of all 
type, the temporary profiles, the ensembles that 
changed in a week and were revolutionized in a 
year, left no key for artist or writer to interpret or 
celebrate a city that yesterday he knew, but to-day 
had outgrown his memory, and that to-morrow 
should find with scarcely a trace of what distin- 
guished it to-day. 

Laws, customs, people, ideas, aims, beliefs, 
changed as the city’s shape changed ; nothing 
rested, nothing stood still, nothing remained of yes- 


HIS HERITAGE. 


287 


terday to justify to-day, nor was the guarantee of to- 
day intelligible to those who asked what to-morrow 
might bring forth. 

That tower-packed sky-line, those endless table- 
lands of arid roofs, those blunt peaks honey-combed 
with windows, were phenomena of the year ; 
another year would find new frames for the sky, 
new chasms through which new people would wind 
their way. Like a tented fair where circus and 
booth and palaces of scantlings spring up with the 
dawn in tinselled pomp, the night should find their 
glory passed away, and a new fair there, setting up 
palaces of gilt and towers with paper battlements, 
while the caravan was already waiting to take the 
traces of the pageantry away, ceding the camping 
ground for other caravans already drawing nigh. 

Yet, out of the debris called a city, already per- 
manency and type were emerging; traces of former 
caravans endured, — not many, but here and there a 
monument or a tablet to the busy people of the 
past. 

And even from the people themselves a type was 
slowly forming, welded from mass on mass of 
human pilgrims who had gathered from the back of 
the four winds. 

Like continents in transition, like nebulae gather- 
ing toward cohesion, like particles of precious metal 
crushed from the ore to gather by their weight 
under the purifying stream, the new world, the peo- 
ples, the fittest to survive, were slowly passing 
through the slow ordeal toward an ensemble that 


288 


OUTSIDERS. 


liberty should grasp and shape and batter with the 
blows of centuries in a nation’s symmetry. 

The splendid outline of the plan fenced the hori- 
zon ; the chimneys of five mighty boroughs wrote 
it in the air, writing tirelessly ; the three rivers sang 
of it, the three bays intoned the anthem, the ocean 
thundered, “ It must be ! ” 

Millions of people were toiling for it ; millions 
lived for it, all unconsciously ; millions had died 
for it ; millions should die. But, oh, the millions 
that should be born for it ! 

Yes, his heritage was fair indeed. He heard the 
river whistles blowing, he heard the humming wires 
underfoot, he heard the soft tumult from the mil- 
lions, he heard the gulls squealing in the winter sky. 
Northward the foxes of Westchester lapped the 
night-ripples of the Bronx ; eastward the woodcock 
still dropped among the swamps of Queens ; west- 
ward the wild hawks sailed above the Kill Von 
Kull ; southward the sea fowl scuttered out to sea. 
But his heritage lay from Scotland Light to Mount 
St. Vincent and from Valley Stream to Green Bed 
Light. His the millions of Manhattan, his the 
villages of the Bronx, his the manors of Richmond, 
the hundred thousand homes of Brooklyn, the farms 
of Queens. Where the wild duck rose on Silver 
Hale Marsh, swung west past Ruffle Bar, past Old 
Swale Marsh, then north, swinging as wild ducks fly, 
past Yellow Bar Hassock, then eastward to the 
Raunt,- — there also lay his young metropolis of a 
splendid land, governing her five humming bee-hive 


HIS HERITAGE. 289 

Boroughs set with monuments and hills and the 
reedy haunts of wild things. 

In the sky, the jewelled flag was his sign, on earth 
he made his covenant with truth to be a faithful 
prophet of his land, his people, and his heritage. 

******** 

When through the golden vapours of the after- 
noon he passed homeward along the snowy paths 
of unfamiliar streets, he came suddenly to Broad- 
way. Across the street he saw the stained grave- 
stones through the railing of St. Paul's ; an elevated 
train rushed past, beyond, and the white steam 
blew through the mouldering rows of tombs, drip- 
ping with melting snow. A cripple shoved a paper 
at him, mumbling of death on a train, and Oliver 
gave him a little money, refusing the paper. 

The sun was low when he entered his room. He 
sat down, tired and thoughtful, watching the snow 
crystals melting on his sleeve. After a while he 
drew Dulcie's letter from his pocket, Grippe came 
to sit at his feet and watch him read. 

It is better after all," he said, tranquilly. If 
I had loved her I should have known it long ago. 
I have never loved; I have come no closer to it 
than pity." He dropped his head on his hand lis- 
tening to the newsboys calling their “ Extra ! 
Extry ! " through the square outside. 

Presently Grippe rose, whining, and a step 
sounded close to his door. It was Weyward who 
entered wishing him a Merry Christmas. 


290 


OUTSIDERS. 


^^And the same to you, Wey ward/' said Oliver 
gayly, offering his hand. ‘‘ Hello ! What's the 
matter with your arm ? " 

Weyward gave him his left hand, saying some- 
thing carelessly about burning his fingers, then he 
sat down, with an absent caress for Grippe. 

About that suit against Klaw — " he said abrupt- 
ly. 

Oliver nodded, looking keenly at Weyward. 

It's settled," continued the other. 

‘‘You mean it will never come to trial?" asked 
Oliver eagerly. 

“ No — it will never come to trial." 

His face was unusually grey, his eyes tired and 
careworn. Oliver asked him if his hand pained 
very much. 

“Yes," said Weyward, as though thinking of 
something else. 

“ There is something troubling you ? " 

“ Yes — I don't know. I made a mess of blocking 
that suit." 

“ Made a mess of it ? " repeated Oliver, disturbed. 

“ In a way. I wired Van Shuyster that I would 
meet him to-day at the depot — in Jersey, you know. 
He was in Florida — but he came north. I fancy he 
knew the game was up. He came north with Mrs. 
Wyvern." 

“You have seen them?" 

“Ye — es," said Weyward slowly. 

Oliver waited, hot with impatience. Finally he 


HIS HERITAGE. 2gi 

said irritably ; What’s the matter anyway ? I 
wish you’d tell me what they said ! ” 

They didn’t say anything — you see — they are 
dead.” 

Dead ! ” cried Oliver horrified. 

'‘Yes — their train went through the trestle this 
morning, just outside the yard limit. I was waiting 
for it at the depot, and I went out on one of the 
switch engines.” 

He hesitated, looking down at Grippe, who was 
sniffing at his bandaged hand. He continued with- 
out looking at Oliver : " The cars caught fire, — they 

always do, you know. We put out some of the 
flames with snow.” 

He rose wearily, still avoiding Oliver’s eyes : 

" Something else occurred,” he said. " Did you 
really love Dulcie Wyvern ? ” 

Oliver sprang to his feet, clutching the table with 
both hands. A terrible fear struck through and 
through him ; he tried to utter speech ; he could not 
move his lips. 

" If you did,” said Weyward, under his breath, 
" you would know it now.” 

Outside the voices of the boys crying news of the 
disaster grew distant ; the scraping of a snow shovel 
drowned the dying echoes in the square. 

Weyward turned, then swung around, looking the 
younger man straight in the eyes : 

" She was on the train : it went through the 
trestle into the Jersey meadows.” 

Oliver swayed where he stood. 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘I have seen her,” said Weyward slowly. 

Then Oliver’s dry lips formed the word — ‘‘ Dead ? ” 
And again, he spoke louder : ‘‘ Is she dead ? Can’t 

you speak ? Don’t stand there — ” he cried out, 
'' don’t look that way — look at me ! Good God ! — 
Can’t you see I love her ? ” 

Then — tell her so,” said Weyward sharply. 
‘‘ The little thing is in Saint Stephen’s Hospital with 
both hips broken, — asking for you.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


GOSSIP. 

A chapter ending in the odour of mignonette if not in the 
odour of sanctity. 

Weyward spent January, February and March 
in selling bath-tubs and dictating letters to his new 
typewriter, Sylvia Tring. But during all that time 
he sent no letter to Oliver, preferring to wait until 
he could write without the assistance of the airy 
mediator on the typewriter. 

‘‘ Don’t you ever write letters to women ? ” asked 
Sylvia one day. Weyward had spoiled her enough 
to find her amusing, but this was over-stepping all 
privileges. 

Oh, yes,” he said amiably, Fm going to write 
one now.” And he dictated a note to Sylvia her- 
self requesting her to amuse herself exclusively 
with her own affairs ; a task she found impossible, 
however. 

‘‘ As if I cared who you write to ! ” she said, nose 
in the air. ‘‘You don’t know much about business, 
either ; if you did you’d photograph your bath-tubs 
with me turning on the water and then people would 
read your stupid advertisements in the backs of the 
magazines.” 


294 


OUTSIDERS. 


Sylvia’s ideas were still dramatic although she 
had severed her connection with the Athenian 
Music Hall. But a certain wholesale grocer was 
after her with painfully honourable intentions, and 
Weyward, sympathising with the wholesale gentle- 
man, had offered Sylvia a chance to habituate 
herself to the humdrum before she decided whether 
or not she could exist outside of the limelight. 

‘‘ I don’t know why I should marry him,” said 
Sylvia, clicking her typewriter sentimentally ; it 
would kill Jack Payser ” 

‘‘ It will kill Jack Payser if you don’t,” said Wey- 
ward. 

And,” continued Sylvia, ‘‘ I haven’t had half 
enough ” 

‘‘What?” 

“Fun ! ” said Sylvia. 

“Try respectability,” said Weyward; “you have 
no idea how much excitement you can get out of 
it!” 

“ What nonsense ! ” said Sylvia. 

“ It’s no nonsense,” replied Weyward ; “ you can’t 
begin to do justice to fun until you’re respectable! 
My word for it, Sylvia, the faster you live the 
slower you find it, and there’s more deviltry in 
married monotony than you’ll find in the whole 
Moulin Rouge.” 

“What’s the Moulin Rouge?” asked Sylvia. 

“ One of the mills of the gods,” replied Wey- 
ward. “ Will you please take this in shorthand : — 


GOSSIP. 


295 


“ Messrs. Nicol, Spigott, and Company : 

Gentlemen : — Replying to your valued letter 
of the twenty-second instant '' 

However, toward the end of April, the deep 
burns in his hand had healed sufficiently for a 
course of massage, and, by May, Weyward was 
able to hold his pen. 

The first note he wrote was directed to a woman. 
It ended : 

I send you Oliver Lock's ‘ Iron City ' ; it’s the 
book of the year ; already the amalgamated associa- 
tion of idiots is comparing him to Thackeray — but 
that need not bother you. Oliver Lock has come 
very close to writing something permanent. They 
may spoil it all by gabbling about the great Ameri- 
can novel ; it’s much broader than that. 

******** 

As I sit here in the sunshine I see your slipper 
before me on the table, — and the perfume of 
mignonette set me thinking. You know the lines — 
Moyr Smith’s — 

‘‘ ‘ Mrs. Aphrodite 
Gave her little sonny 

Lots of golden curls 
But little golden money. 

Gold when it’s in curls 
Leads the world astray ; 

Gold when it’s in coin 
Acts the selfsame way.’ 

‘^You sing something like that when you play 
your harp — don’t you ? 

******** 


296 


OUTSIDERS. 


“ I am very sorry the panic in Wall Street should 
have affected anybody I know. By the way, 
there seems to be an account opened in your name 
at the Bronx River Bank ; I enclose details which 
you will destroy. Pray take no trouble to answer 
this — by letter ” 

He turned the paper over and added a few words, 
then sealed the envelope, rang for a messenger, and 
began his second letter, first directing the envelope 
to Oliver Lock, EsqVe., High Springs Hospital, 
North Carolina: 

‘‘You understand what the trouble has been; I 
fancy the massage treatment saved my hand from 
being merely ornamental. 

“ I saw John Stark about ‘The Iron City’; he 
says it is selling very well. Have you seen any 
reviews, I mean any intelligent criticisms ? 

“ Marc Zisco cuts you up very cleverly. He is a 
master of the art of self advertisement ; he’ll prob- 
ably find some way of using his own decease to 
boom his soul. 

“I am reading your book; it’s fairly good; you 
can do better. But it is the next book you write 
that will tell. 

“ You ask me for news, Oliver, and I know nothing 
much more recent than the Louis XVI incident. 
However, Jack Payser came into the office to-day — 
and you know what vile gossips men can be. So 
here you are 

“ Mazie McNair has gone into Romayne’s company 
— rather an advance from the Athenian. She has 
talent and intelligence ; it’s a toss up which way 
she climbs. Sylvia Tring is going to marry a 
wholesale gentleman. Little Violet has gone back 


GOSSIP. 


297 


to her people, — and, by the way, your friend 
Chatterton Mawly was arrested the other day. I 
don’t know what for, but I fancy he’ll wriggle out 
of it. 

“ I have seen nothing of Dawson, Magnelius and 
Rogueby Klaw, but I notice they are advertising a 
new edition of Pidley’s Purity of Living,” with an 
introduction by Magnelius Klaw. 

“ As for the Monastery, it is the same austere and 
serene cloister that you knew, — a quiet retreat for 
meditation and prayer. The monks occupy their 
ancient cells, Tom Fydo, Trivol, the Vice Consul 
for Yucatan, your friend Sidney Jaune, little Veeder 
and the others. The Count has found money some- 
where — I suspect he has been blackmailing that 
good man Dawson Klaw. He seems quite cheer- 
ful, and has an expensive apartment uptown. 

Zig-Zag has gone into the hands of a receiver, 
but your friend Eugene Smith drives a mail-coach 
and four. How do they do it, Oliver? 

I suppose you know Ivan is dead. They say it 
was accident, the shooting. The whole thing is too 
tragic for gossip, so I shall say no more. We all may 
be in for the same thing some day — we of the gay 
unclassed. 

“Your letters come, week after week, but if I had 
had the heart to answer them, my bandaged hand 
has been in the way — and I could not dictate the 
things I shrink from saying. And, Oliver, I cannot 
believe that Dulcie is not going to get well. I will 
w/ believe it. You say she is able to be carried 
out to your skiff, and breathe the soft air, and I can- 
not see why you are discouraged. If the doctors 
say she can never again walk, let them say it, but 
don’t for a moment believe it. She will live and 
grow strong and walk, — it is wicked to doubt it ! 
There is a God — even for us outsiders ” 


298 


OUTSIDERS. 


A knocking at his door interrupted him. He 
stood up irresolutely ; there was a swish of skirts in 
the hallway. 

As he opened the door the air grew sweeter, 
tinctured with the delicate fragrance of mignonette. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


A SHIP SAILS. 

Containing a chart of the oldest harbour in the world, 

A SMALL dog presided at the tiller. The May 
sunlight, slanting on the water, turned the tiny sail 
to a sheet of gilt. There was no wind ; the white 
craft drifted shoreward where slender willows 
dimpled the water. 

In the sky the peaks of the Blue Ridge towered, 
cloud-belted, and the shadows on their forest- 
mantled flanks deepened the velvet bloom. 

At the river's bend a little puff of fragrance — 
scarcely a breeze, filled the sail for an instant : the 
thin films of sunlit water danced with a silken 
sound under the bows, then the sail fell again, and 
the idle water spread away in a smooth, flat sheet of 
gold. 

Dulcie lay silent on her cushions, whiter than the 
heaps of flowering laurel crowning the river ledges 
with snow, far as the eye could see. Her crutches 
lay in the boat beside her. Oliver lifted an oar : 

There is no wind, Dulcie, — only this breath of 
perfume 


300 


OUTSIDERS. 


‘‘ Let US drift,” she murmured, closing her grey- 
eyes. 

They were slipping past a forest now, heaped 
with the snow of the laurel, heavy with the scent 
of magnolia. 

The dusky shadows came out to bar the water 
with their purple tints, the jessamine hung its gold 
brocade athwart their bows, azalias flamed along 
the coast like tiny torches signalling the port. 

Trailing vines, entwining mast and tiller, swung 
them shoreward. In the forest’s hush, the spring- 
tide mass was celebrated by the cardinals robed in 
fire, the grey hermit-thrush crept out to listen, the 
tall pines stirred ; then the river, which had waited, 
rippled on. 

‘‘ Let us anchor here,” she said. 

He answered, but she did not speak again. Her 
face was whiter than the laurel blossom floating be- 
side the idle oar. 

Furtive shadows came out to bar the water with 
their purple tints, the jessamine hung its gold bro- 
cade athwart their bows, azalias flamed along the 
coast like tiny torches signalling the port, — the 
Port of Love. 

Trailing vines, entwining mast and tiller, held 
them. In the forest’s hush, the spring-tide mass 
was celebrated by the cardinals, robed in fire, the 
grey hermit-thrush crept out to listen, the tall pines 
stirred ; then the river, which had waited, flowed 
on, bearing the white laurel blossom on its gilded 
ripples. 


A SHIP SAILS. 301 

‘‘ We are at anchor,” he whispered. Are you 
rested ? Shall we drift again, Dulcie ? * 

But she had already drifted far beyond his hail. 





1 




>! 

i 

f 

i 


\ 








t 




f(l)ffli'-W.;- Afc'.,. ■; V^. ':' 



j^'lLif <r^; Vv • /'• ✓. , . 



»V. 


.Uy': y* ‘TT*'' .J 
k .- *- \/ 

\ > ^ 


Ml 


I ’4?- -s? A Y ^•- •’> # O k <*' - 

V. 



■[ '- 


F*< ..1 1 ” i 

" ■ ■ ■ 


'Ni 


> ^Tif j -t • 


r ' ¥• . • • I 



/r- ' f 


A »A *- /i ' 

^yri • ^ i' T'M. ' 


•x 


■i " I 


>• 


. / 




' •* >f^ ‘ 

‘’.'i 


* V 

f % / ■ 

' .-f ’ • 


■■ :.- ' ’jf-. t ■' •> I.'-;' 


v^^'V '>^1 ■' . "< '.v'’ . >••• ' .*r ?^Kia* 

■ ' •■ ‘- 1 , "■ . g» ,:;■:■ •. -.fc- - 


'. M 










M l« 


4-; 






•v'. 


a- 












.. y'T’s^, V 

* , i H ♦ 


i-' ■'^■' 

if V 




, • » 


' ’*■ ^ -v. •WiB 




- - -V • V 

A, ■* 






I 


k . v- >r ' 


jr^'V • •/< '^ 


♦ V, 


Ml 




t'-.' 


:a- 




.i.> 


ft 


e^L* V' . 




Jl 


Iv-C 


Xi . 


V 

M 

. 4 

, . • j, 

^ y*' '*“ 

f.v ■ :* ,«: r 

V .1 -r ' i"- • '=' 

.v'^r *■ V ""/■ 

' *J rr*" n/ 






< ' .cv 


,ji^: 






’ V ■ 






f 


^1 » 




"1 • .»>' 




Fu V . 




I T' 

ft- 


‘P-' '"-• 

^V/vTv'"'* 






fi-Vl 


■IH 


H 


Vi 


r-v '^•7 ‘ 




‘*V 


f t *'' ■■ , 




t >1 






